Until Death
by thedragonaunt
Summary: Marriage is for life, not just for Valentine's Day – unless they both amount to the same thing… Meanwhile, we need to talk about Freddie... The latest episode in my Sherlolly Saga, a sequel to 'Fatal Breath' and 'Holmes for Christmas'. Rated T. *Contains scenes that some people may find upsetting.* Cover image by elbafo, not only a brilliant writer but also the Photoshop Queen!
1. Until Death - The Prologue

**Marriage is for life, not just for Valentine's Day – unless they both amount to the same thing…**

 **Until Death**

 **by**

 **thedragonaunt**

 **Prologue**

'Three cheers for the happy couple!' yelled one of the guests, enthusiastically, and all those assembled on the gravel driveway complied as the car carrying the newly-weds pulled away. The couple gave a final wave through the rear window then settled back in their seats, each breathing a sigh of relief. They were married! It was done!

It had been a happy day but a hectic one and they were both relieved to be alone together, at last. They glanced, briefly, into each other's eyes as their hands met and their fingers entwined.

'Spouses for life', the celebrant had said.

'Until death do us part,' they had replied.

They smiled at the shared memory and leaned in for a tender kiss.

At the end of the driveway, the chauffeur turned left and drove through the village, the windshield wipers slapping vigorously from side to side. That was the only blot on an otherwise perfect day. The rain that had fallen relentlessly for the previous month had not let up, even for this special occasion, forcing the guests to resort to wellingtons and raincoats. But it had not marred the joy of the day. And in a few hours, the newly-weds would be in southern Italy, beginning their married life with a week-long honeymoon.

The wedding car approached the ancient stone bridge in the centre of the village. The normally gentle, meandering river had been transformed, by the unusually heavy and prolonged precipitation, into a raging torrent and here, where the four hundred year old bridge funnelled the water though its narrow single arch, the roar of the racing water could be heard even inside the car.

The chauffeur slowed to check for oncoming traffic, as the bridge was only wide enough for traffic to cross in one direction at a time. There was nothing approaching from the other side so the driver slipped the car into first gear and eased forward onto the bridge.

Even as he did so, there was strange grating, growling, rumbling sound and the car shook and shuddered. Looking out through the windscreen, the driver watched in stunned surprise as the low parapet on the left side of the river crossing seemed to split, in a zig-zag path, along the cracks between the blocks of masonry. But as the split reached the roadway, it didn't stop. It continued on, across the tarmac surface and the bridge cracked in two, across the apex.

The car continued to creep forwards, the driver transfixed by the strange events unfolding around him. As the front wheels rolled over the crack in the road, the rear end of the vehicle seemed to dip and twist.

'Drive on! Drive on!'

The driver was shaken from his shocked stupor by the voices of his passengers, yelling from the back seat, but it was too late. The sheer force of the current had weakened the underside of the construction and the weight of the wedding car was the final straw. As the bridge split, the roadway collapsed into the roiling water, dragging the vehicle with it. It plunged backwards into the maelstrom and was swept away, downstream.

ooOoo

Up at the big house, the phone in the front hall rang out.

Andrew, Mycroft Holmes' valet cum butler, lifted the receiver.

'Colbert House,' he intoned.

ooOoo


	2. Until Death - Chapter One

**A huge thank you to all my readers, especially those who have reviewed, faved and followed this latest episode in my Sherlolly Saga! After such a long hiatus, I thought you would all have forgotten about me. I should have known better. We Sherlock fans are good at waiting! :)**

 **Chapter One**

The black Land Rover Freelander manoeuvred along the narrow village street and turned into the gravel driveway leading to the village hall and its car park. It drew to a halt in a vacant space, alongside several other 4x4 vehicles belonging to local farmers, most of whom were tenants of the Holmes estate. Switching off the Freelander's engine, the driver turned and nodded greetings to the occupants of the vehicles on either side then looked towards the group of people huddled under their umbrellas, outside the village Primary school, across the road.

Friday was Arthur's day to do the school run, it being a home study day for his Psychology Degree course. He didn't usually drive the school run – he usually ran. It was only a mile, after all, from Colbert House to the village of Colbert St Mary so he normally jogged there, and then he and the children would walk back, across the fields, enjoying the fresh air and the sights and sounds of the countryside. But it had been raining almost non-stop for days, if not weeks, and the fields were completely waterlogged, the thick mud ankle deep, so Arthur had borrowed the Estate Manager's 4x4 to collect the children from school.

Through the rain-obscured windscreen, Arthur observed the huddle outside the school gate. He knew all of the villagers by sight, if not by name, as many of them were tenants of the estate, too. The Holmes estate was a large and thriving business, the largest employer in the area, and it was owned by Arthur's partner – soon to be husband – Mycroft Holmes.

It never ceased to amaze Arthur that the man who had inherited this vast estate, while still in his mid-twenties, and managed to hold it all together – despite the crippling inheritance tax that the government had levied on its assets – and turn it into a thriving business whilst, at the same time, carving out a highly successful career in the Civil Service and taking care of his wild-child little brother… This man had chosen him – lowly little Arthur Brocklehurst from Stalybridge – to be his life partner. He really had to pinch himself, sometimes.

Arthur was roused from his reverie by the sound of his text alert pinging. He fished his mobile phone from his pocket and saw that the sender was Mycroft himself. The senior Holmes brother rarely used text, preferring the spoken word to the written. The fact that he was texting now suggested he was most likely in the middle of a meeting - and messaging under the table - so, with that image in mind, Arthur opened the text and read it with a smile.

 _Shutting up shop early. Home in an hour. England can manage without me for the weekend._

That was not strictly true, of course, since the man who practically was the British Government was permanently on call, where ever in the world he happened to be, but it was good that he would be 'working from home', at least.

Arthur's eye was caught by the movement forward of the huddle by the school gate, a sure sign that said gate had been unlocked to admit the waiting parents and carers to collect their charges.

 _That's good to hear. C u soon,_ he replied, as he pulled up the hood on his Gore-Tex jacket and climbed out of the Freelander, pocketing the phone as he jogging across the street and joining the group of people funnelling through the narrow opening, into the Nursery playground, sharing pleasantries and comments about the weather as they went.

'Not long now, Mr Arthur, before you and His Lordship tie the knot?'

Arthur recognised the speaker as one of the ladies who did casual work for events up at the 'big house' – which was how the local people referred to Colbert House, Mycroft's ancestral home. He nodded and smiled, almost coyly.

'Yes, just over two weeks,' he replied.

He still found it strange to hear his partner referred to as 'His Lordship', a title Mycroft never used in either his public or private life. But to the people of Colbert St Mary and the Holmes estate, he was and always would be the 'lord of the manor'.

'I'll be sorry to miss it,' the woman went on, 'but my Alice is getting wed the same day, in the church here in the village. I can hardly miss my own daughter's wedding, now can I?' she chuckled.

'No, of course not,' Arthur agreed and made a mental note to remind Mycroft to send a gift to the village newlyweds, in keeping with a long-standing feudal tradition. 'We'll save you a slice of our wedding cake,' he added, with a grin.

'Oooh, thank you!' the woman trilled. 'And I'll save you a slice of ours! Oh, I think it's your turn.'

Looking across to the open door to the Nursery classroom, Arthur saw that the teaching assistant was beckoning him to come forward. He spotted Charlie standing beside the TA, swathed in his waterproofs and clutching his school bag.

'Eh up, Charlie!' he greeted the little boy and Charlie's face lit up with delight.

'Poppah!' he squealed, throwing himself into Arthur's outstretched arms. 'Poppah, it's been waining all day! We had to stay in again at playtime and watch 'Bwum' onna DVD!'

'Is that right?' Arthur exclaimed. 'Brum' was one of Charlie and Katy's favourite kids' TV shows. The children had the box set at home but never tired of watching it, over and over again.

Standing upright and taking Charlie by the hand, Arthur smiled at the TA.

'I expect you'll be glad to get shut of them all for the weekend,' he quipped, having observed clear evidence of cabin fever in Charlie's demeanour and multiplied it by the number of children in the class – and this was only the afternoon group!

'It has been a very long, wet week,' the TA agreed, with a wry smile.

'Where's your sister got to?' he asked Charlie, looking round the classroom, still quite well populated with small children.

'Oh!' exclaimed the TA. 'She was here a moment ago. Let me go and find her. Katy Holmes…' she called, walking away from the door.

'She's inna Quiet Corner,' Charlie announced. 'She's having a stwop,' he added, helpfully.

'Oh, dear,' Arthur mused, smiling inwardly at Charlie's use of the Northern idiom. 'What's that about?' he wondered aloud.

'I don't know,' Charlie replied. 'She tol' me to go away.'

Arthur sighed, shaking his head, as he made his way toward the Quiet Corner. Katy was a little prone to 'strops'. Perhaps being the only female in the family could be a little frustrating, even for a nearly-four year old. Arthur had personal experience of being the only boy in a largely female household so he knew how over-whelming that could be, at times, but at least he'd had his dad for back-up. Katy had the two nannies, of course, but perhaps that wasn't quite the same.

Katy had inherited all her father's strength of personality but had not, so far, developed any of his diplomatic skills. Temperamentally, she was a lot more like her Uncle Sherlock. Katy hated to lose. She would never back down in an argument and, if her adversary refused to yield, she could sulk for England. Charlie, the younger twin, was quite the opposite. He avoided confrontation at all costs and would yield at the first sign of losing ground. The twins' characters were as alike as chalk and cheese.

Arthur arrived at the Quiet Corner and looked over the top of the partition that screened the area from the rest of the room. Seated cross-legged, on the rug, arms folded and face set in a disgruntled scowl, Katy looked up and eyed him morosely. Then, as recognition dawned, she scrambled to her feet, rushing around the partition and flinging her arms around Arthur's legs.

'Poppah!' she sobbed. 'I HATE Stevie Needham!'

ooOoo

It took a few minutes to calm the weeping child and neither Arthur nor the class teacher, who appeared on the scene within moments of hearing Katy's loud emotional outburst, could persuade her to explain what exactly Stevie Needham had done to provoke such a dramatic reaction.

Stevie was the son of one of the villagers, the youngest of three children, all of whom attended the little village school. The family had a bit of a bad reputation, amongst the locals. Mr Needham, who was a labourer on one of the estate's farms, spent most of his free time in the village pub and was known to have a rather heavy-handed approach to discipline, where the kids were concerned – and his wife, too, by all accounts. The older children were always in some sort of bother.

The child in question had already left for home so was not available to shed any light on what he may have done to upset Katy so Arthur decided it was probably best to take the twins home and continue this inquiry in the warmth and comfort of the cosy kitchen at Colbert House, over some of the cook's hot buttered tea cakes.

He took both children in hand and hurried off, through the still persistent downpour, to the Freelander, installing them in their child seats before climbing in himself, behind the steering wheel.

'All set?' he asked.

'Yes, Poppah,' Charlie replied. Katy just nodded and turned her face to look out of the window.

'Guess what?' Arthur exclaimed. 'Daddy's on his way home early!'

'Hurray! Daddy's coming home!' cheered Charlie, clapping his hands with delight. Katy turned to look at her Poppah, with an expression of hopeful anticipation. Arthur grinned back at both children, put the Freelander into gear and drove off.

By the time they arrived home, Katy's spirits seemed completely restored. She jumped from the back of the car and raced into the house, dumping her school bag on the hall floor, shedding her outdoor shoes and coat, and dashing off to the kitchen, where Mrs Orgreave would be in attendance, waiting to serve Afternoon Tea.

Arthur and Charlie followed at a more sedate pace and settled themselves at the farmhouse kitchen table, as the family cook served milk and tea and freshly baked toasted teacakes, spread with generous amounts of butter. Since Katy appeared to have recovered from her altercation with her classmate, Arthur concluded it was probably best to let sleeping dogs lie. They had the whole weekend ahead of them and, by Monday, the whole affair would most likely be completely forgotten.

ooOoo


	3. Until Death - Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Sherlock rose slowly towards consciousness, like a piece of flotsam floating to the surface of a deep, dark pool. Lying on his side, curled in the foetal position, he was vaguely aware that he was incapable of voluntary movement. It was as though his muscles had been disconnected from his brain - he couldn't even open his eyes. Resigned to this reality - that he could neither move, speak nor see - he focused his attention on the one sense at his disposal – his hearing. And there it was, the sound that had roused him from unconsciousness, the strains of a violin drifting up from the floor below. Someone was playing a jig.

As the effects of temporary sleep paralysis faded, he rolled onto his back, stretched his arms and legs out straight and lay still, listening to the repetitive phrases of the jig and wincing, slightly, at the occasional sharp or flat note. The fingering and the bowing might not be perfect but the player was maintaining the lilting rhythm remarkably well – especially for a seven year old. His son, William, showed many signs of being musically gifted and Sherlock's lips curled in a 'proud father' smile.

 _Following three days of intense and relentless sleuthing, culminating in the successful apprehension of the guilty parties, the consulting detective had arrived home in the early hours of the morning. His first priority was to do the rounds of his children's bedrooms, to assure himself that they were all safe and well and sleeping soundly. Then he had fallen into bed, wrapped himself around his wife and slipped into his ubiquitous post-case coma._

Peeling his eyelids open just a crack, he deduced - by the quality of the light that seeped into the room, around the edges of the heavy curtains - that it was mid-afternoon. Light, yes, he needed light. He reached out a hand and groped around until he found the lamp on the bedside table and switched it on. His hand dropped back to rest on his chest and he breathed a long sigh of satisfaction. He had slept deeply for thirteen hours. But he was awake, now, and feeling rather hungry.

Throwing off the duvet, Sherlock swung his legs off the bed and sat up, pausing to ruffle his hair with the fingers of both hands before standing up and padding off, bare-footed, to the bathroom to relieve his bladder and retrieve his dressing down. He exited the bathroom through the door onto the landing and descended the stairs slowly, his brain still a little fuzzy from his long sleep. He needed a cup of strong coffee to clear his head and sharpen his wits.

The strains of the violin had ceased, to be replaced by the muffled sound of children's voices, filtering through the closed sitting room door. He crossed the front hall to the kitchen door, pushed it open and walked in. Molly was sitting at the kitchen table, with a mug of tea by her hand and the daily newspaper spread open on the table top. As the kitchen door opened she looked up and smiled at the sight of him, all crumpled and disheveled, in his tatty t-shirt, PJ bottoms and flapping dressing gown, with his hair sticking out at all angles.

'Good afternoon!' she greeted, teasingly.

Not yet capable of speech, Sherlock grunted, crossed the floor and bent over to plonk a loose-lipped kiss on the top of her head then went straight to the counter top where their coffee maker sat and began to prepare a double espresso. Molly folded her newspaper and picked up her tea, cradling the mug in both hands, as she sipped. An affectionate smile graced her lips, as she watched him going through the practiced actions of preparing his favourite beverage. This was his 'morning' routine, regardless of whatever time of day he actually got up. It was so embedded in his muscle memory he could probably do it with his eyes closed. Actually, she thought maybe he did have his eyes closed!

'Tough case, was it?' she asked.

'Mmmm?' he mumbled, with a slight shrug of the shoulders.

'But you solved it, of course?'

'Hmmm!' he answered, with an indignant nod.

'Greg OK? And John?'

'Mm-hmm,' he hummed in the affirmative then yawned, stretched and blinked a few times to clear his vision.

Molly had to stifle a giggle. When he had pushed himself to a state of near-collapse from physical and mental exhaustion, she loved this inarticulate phase of his refractory period. It served to confirm that he was, after all, only human despite the public image he liked to project. This was their little family secret and she treasured these private moments.

Coffee made, Sherlock carried the cup over to the table and sat down opposite his wife, taking a much anticipated swig and closing his eyes to savour the taste as the caffeine began to get to work on his nervous system.

'Everything alright? Did I miss anything?' he asked, in his gruff and growly 'morning voice'.

Molly beetled her brows, thinking back over the previous three days to see if anything really important had occurred during his absence. Only one item came to mind.

'Oh, Mycroft phoned again,' she informed him.

'Oh, god,' he groaned, slumping forward, holding his head in his hands, elbows resting on the table. 'Not the Best Man speech!'

Molly winced sympathetically.

'Well, it is only two weeks away, darling,' she reminded him. 'And I think he would rather like to check it over, ahead of the big day – if you know what I mean.'

'Yes, I know. He 'wants to make sure there's nothing in it that could cause embarrassment'…' he recited in his 'Mycroft' voice.

'Which is understandable, under the circumstances…' Molly added, in a placatory tone.

'I've told him to write it himself and I'll just read it out, for God's sake…' Sherlock whinged, petulantly.

Molly frowned. She knew why Sherlock was being so awkward about the Best Man's Speech for his brother's wedding. There were many things he could say about Mycroft but the things he really wanted to say, he felt he should tell his sibling in private – but he had never quite found the right moment.

She reached across the table and placed a sympathetic hand over his.

'Why don't you write two speeches,' she suggested, 'one to read on the day and one to read just for him? Write the private one first, to get all that stuff off your chest, and then write the public one.'

Sherlock wrinkled his nose but Molly could tell he was considering the idea.

During their conversation, she had been vaguely aware that the sound of violin playing had started up again, in the sitting room but, while Sherlock was running her suggestion through his fuzzy brain, the music stopped abruptly and was replaced by raised voices then the door to the dining room suddenly flew open and William marched into the room, violin and bow in hand, looking most disgruntled.

'Mummy, will you tell Freddie…!' he began then stopped, mid-sentence, as he spotted his father at the kitchen table.

'Daddy!' he exclaimed, breaking into a smile and running over to give Sherlock a hug, which was returned with equal affection.

'Daddy,' he began again, breaking the hug and resuming his disgruntled demeanour. 'Please tell Freddie and his friend to stop being silly. I'm practicing for my Grade Three violin exam and they keep getting in the way,' he protested.

The rainy day had ruled out playing outside for Freddie and his visiting friend and had inadvertently led to this conflict of interests between the Hooper-Holmes boys.

'Oh, dear,' Molly sighed and made to rise from the table to go and speak to her youngest son about his inconsiderate behaviour but she was pre-empted by the boy in question, who charged into the kitchen, resplendent in his Princess Elsa gown, calling over his shoulder to another child, following close behind, wearing a multi-coloured jacket, a floppy hat and a feather boa.

Freddie, rather red in the face, skidded to a halt when he clapped eyes on Sherlock.

'Daddy!' he squealed and, as William beat a tactical retreat to the other side of the chair, Freddie ran round the table and threw himself into his father's waiting arms.

As Sherlock hugged the boy, pressing a loving kiss to the crown of his head, he glanced up and saw that the other child, who also looked quite hot and bothered, had stopped dead in the doorway and was eying him rather suspiciously.

'Hello,' he said to the strange child, who did not reply but continued to stare at him, warily.

'Oh,' Molly exclaimed. 'This is Morgan – Freddie's little friend from school?'

Sherlock gave a nod of cognisance. Freddie had been over to Morgan's house a couple of times to play with his friend and Morgan had come to Freddie's once before but Sherlock hadn't been home at the time.

'Morgan, this is Freddie's daddy,' Molly explained to the cautious child. 'He's a bit wary of strangers,' she explained to her husband.

Sherlock gave the little boy a friendly smile but then turned his attention back to the dispute between William and Freddie.

'What have you been up to, little man?' he asked the defendant in the case.

'We was on'y dancing, Daddy,' Freddie explained, in his opening statement for the defence. 'Wiw'yum was pya'ying hid vi'lin and we dust had to dance! But we is quite hot, now, so tan we hab a dwint of water, pead?'

Being a parent sometimes required the wisdom of Solomon and this was one of those moments.

'You know, we all love to hear William play the violin and it does make us want to dance but he needs to practice for his exam,' Sherlock chided, gently, as William, the plaintive, nodded in vehement agreement. Freddie's face morphed into a sad frown.

'I solly, Wiw'yum,' he said, sincerely.

'Tell you what,' Molly exclaimed, getting up from the table, 'let's all have a drink and a snack and then William can go back to his practicing and Freddie and Morgan can play with me, in the kitchen!'

She looked around, hopefully, to see how her suggestion would be received. Freddie needed no thinking time at all. Any option that involved food was just fine with him. William gave it due consideration and then nodded his assent, marching off to return his violin and bow to their case for the duration of the snack break.

'Morgan,' Molly addressed Freddie's friend, 'come and sit at the table, sweetheart, and have a snack.'

Morgan crossed to the table and climbed onto a chair, choosing a position where his sightline did not cross hairs with Sherlock's. He then sat quietly, eyes down cast, twisting his fingers together in his lap as he waited for the food and drink to appear. Sherlock stood up and deposited Freddie on the chair next to the visitor, effectively shielding Morgan from himself, at which point the little boy visibly relaxed and leaned in, towards the comforting presence of his friend.

The detective noted Morgan's behaviour with interest, fascinated by the strategies employed by the child to avoid interaction with this unknown quantity - a person he hadn't met before. This would be an interesting afternoon, observing how readily the little boy adapted to the unfamiliar situation – or not…

'Don't even think about it,' Molly cautioned, as she brushed past her husband, carrying a tray of snacks and drinks to the table.

'What?' Sherlock protested his innocence.

'You are not experimenting on our guest,' Molly muttered, from the corner of her mouth.

'I wouldn't dream of such a thing. I was merely observing…' Sherlock retorted.

'Nope!'

'Well, I can't just switch it off…'

'Yes, you can.'

Sherlock huffed in righteous indignation.

'Just stop it,' Molly hissed, taking no nonsense.

Any further discussion on the matter was precluded when the baby monitor, that had been sitting quietly on the counter top, suddenly burst into life with the unmistakeable tones of Violet's sing-song voice lighting up all the LED's, as she called out,

'Mumah? Mumah? Goo-da-toe-du!'

'Ah, I think your daughter needs you,' Molly smiled, demurely.

'She's calling for you,' replied Sherlock, tartly, settling in for a good sulk.

'I'm busy caring for your sons, darling,' Molly declared, indicating the tray of food and drink she was carrying. 'And, anyway, you know she likes you best.'

'She does, doesn't she,' Sherlock smirked and jumped to his feet, with a dramatic swish of his dressing gown, to go and collect Violet from her afternoon nap.

'And perhaps you'd like to get dressed,' Molly called after him, 'before Morgan's mummy comes to collect him? She might be a bit alarmed to find you still in your PJ's.'

Turning back with a frown, he asked,

'Why should my nightwear alarm her?'

'Not your nightwear, dear! Just YOU in them!' she sniggered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued on his way, as Violet's calls became more and more demanding and indignant at the poor service she was receiving.

ooOoo


	4. Until Death - Chapter Three

**Thanks again for all your favs, follows and reviews! I will answer every one of you, I promise.**

 **Chapter Three**

A play barn, on a wet Saturday afternoon in January, after a week of non-stop rain, would probably not rank very high on a list of Mycroft Holmes' venues of choice. It reminded him, he remarked to Arthur, of the chamber in the House of Commons during Prime Minister's Question Time – though considerably more civilised. But, for Katy and Charlie, it was probably Number One, which was why the family had been here for the past nearly two hours.

The two _almost_ four-year-olds were still allowed in the toddler area but this level of soft play challenge didn't quite cut the mustard any more with the intrepid twosome. Fortunately - and to Mycroft's great relief - Arthur was more than happy to act as chaperone for the children in the main area - where children up to twelve years of age were admitted - allowing Daddy to man the base camp table and chairs and dispense cold drinks and extra rations, as and when required.

Mycroft could not deny he thoroughly enjoyed watching Arthur and the children having so much fun, climbing and jumping, tumbling and sliding. But the cacophonous din of shrieking children and chattering adults - not to mention the unrelenting blare of loud pop music from the tannoy and the constant procession of people, up and down the centre aisle, to and from the snack bar - was almost more than he could bear. People! That was the problem.

He had suggested to Arthur that they simply hire the play barn for a private party and allow the children to invite a select group of friends and their parents for an afternoon of fun and frolics, but Arthur had vetoed the idea, most emphatically.

'They need to grow up in the real world, Mykie, not in Wonderland,' Arthur had insisted and that was the end of the matter. So here they were.

It had been a particularly difficult few weeks in Mycroftland. There had been the usual round of Amber terror alerts and scandals, involving high profile members of the Establishment, to deal with but the biggest cause for concern was the unusually long spell of abnormal weather. The Environment Agency had been under fire from the media and the Opposition Party, every time another flood defence failed and a town or village was flooded, some for the second or third time in recent months. Mycroft's role as Head of Damage Limitation had been extended to include Acts of God, it would appear.

To avoid any possibility of embarrassment, he had met with his Estate Manager just after Christmas and they had reviewed the flood management protocols in place on Mycroft's land. The water meadows that flanked the river were all flooded – as was their intended purpose. By absorbing the excess water from the river and holding it in place until water levels dropped, the flood plain pre-empted the river breaking its banks further downstream, in the village of Colbert St Mary. However, in these unusual meteorological circumstances, even the flood plains were being stretched beyond their limits.

As a precaution, Mycroft had ordered that all the field boundary ditches be dredged and the spoil piled up along the top edges of the ditches thus increasing their drainage capacity by nearly one hundred percent. Consequently, although the land was completely saturated, they were managing to hold the water in check. The river had risen to its highest level in living memory and its current was fast and furious, but it was still contained within its course. He only wished he could order all the land owners in the country to take similar precautions but, sadly, this was not in his gift.

As he pondered these matters of national importance, Mycroft rubbed at his temples, an unconscious reaction to the stress headache that was developing behind his eyes.

'Good afternoon, Your Lordship,' a voice interrupted his thoughts.

His demeanour transformed and, instantly, he was Mycroft Holmes, Government official, local landowner, diplomat and consummate professional.

'Good afternoon, Mrs Needham,' he purred, with an ingratiating smile. 'How nice to see you. And how is the family? Well, I hope.'

'Oh, yes, sir, very well, thank you,' Mrs Needham smiled diffidently. 'And yours, too, I see. Young Charlie is the very image of you! And Katy, such a pretty little girl. Who does she take after?'

Mycroft was no fool. He recognised a fishing expedition when he saw one.

'She's very like my mother,' he replied, blithely, never missing a beat.

'Oh, really? I don't remember Her Ladyship,' the woman replied. Her care-worn face belied her youth. She was still in her twenties, despite having three children of school age. 'She must have been a very beautiful lady.'

'Indeed, she was,' Mycroft replied, giving a small nod of appreciation for the compliment.

'Well, I'd better get back to my lot,' said Mrs Needham, with a nervous giggle. 'Don't want them starting a riot, do we?'

Mycroft inclined his head. He had no doubt that the Needham family were quite capable of doing just that. As Mrs Needham walked away, he recalled to mind the previous evening.

 _Mycroft had bathed the children, put them to bed and read them a story, during which Charlie dropped off to sleep – as was his usual MO. Charlie rarely got to hear the end of any story. Katy, though awake, was abnormally subdued throughout. Story over, Mycroft had leant forward to kiss her cheek when she suddenly said,_

' _Daddy, who is my mummy?'_

 _Slightly nonplussed by the question, he faltered. He had always planned to explain to the children how they had come into being, via two donor eggs and a surrogate womb, but he hadn't expected to have to do it quite so soon. Consequently, he was unprepared and he wasn't sure how to word his explanation so that a three year old – albeit a very bright one – would understand. He paused, momentarily, to order his thoughts before replying,_

' _You have two mummies, my darling, and they both live in America.'_

' _Two mummies?' she repeated, perplexed._

' _Yes, indeed,' he confirmed._

'But w _hy do they live in America and not here with us?' Katy puzzled._

' _Well,' Mycroft began, choosing his words very carefully, 'before you and Charlie were born, Daddy lived here all on his own and he was very lonely. He so much wanted a Katy and a Charlie to love that he decided to find a kind mummy who would give him some baby eggs and another kind mummy who would grow the babies in her tummy and that's how you and Charlie were born. Then I brought you home to England to live here with me. The two mummies stayed in America because that is where they live.'_

 _Katy beetled her brow, processing this information, then said,_

' _So me and Charlie have two mummies AND two daddies?'_

' _Yes, that's right! You live here with Daddy and Poppah and we both love you very much,' Mycroft replied. He felt that Katy still had more questions about her origins so he waited, quietly, for her to speak again. Eventually, she did._

' _Stevie Needham says that having two daddies is wrong. He says we should have one daddy and one mummy, like him. He says that daddies can't marry daddies, they have to marry mummies,' she blurted out, all in a rush, tears starting in her eyes, 'but that's not true is it, Daddy!'_

 _Mycroft scooped his daughter from her bed to hold her to his breast. His brain was flooded with a cocktail of powerful emotions – anger at the child whose ill-informed comments had so rocked the world of his precious daughter and caused her to question and doubt her own sense of right and wrong; guilt that his own selfish desire for a family had led him to bring these innocent children into the world to face the consequences of his actions; grief that Katy's innocence had been somehow damaged by this other child's ignorant words; and inadequacy that, despite all his efforts, he had not been able to protect her from any of this._

' _That is absolutely not true, my darling girl,' he gasped. His chest felt tight and his throat constricted but he tried to keep his voice steady. 'Daddies can marry daddies and mummies can marry mummies and daddies and mummies can marry each other. The only thing that matters is that they love each other. And we do – Poppah and I - we love each other very much and we both love you and Charlie more than anything or anyone in the world.'_

 _Katy raised her head from her father's chest and gazed earnestly into his eyes._

' _And do our mummies love us, too?' she pleaded, needing this final reassurance._

' _Yes, I am quite sure they do. That's why they gave you to me, because they wanted us all to be happy. And then Poppah came to live with us and made our little family complete!'_

 _Katy considered that reply for a moment then wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek to his. 'I love you, Daddy,' she said. 'And I love Poppah, too.'_

 _Having settled the child back in her bed, Mycroft was in need of his own reassurance and the only person who could provide that was waiting for him in the winter drawing room – or the Snug, as the household referred to it. When he walked into the room, Arthur took in the expression on his face and jumped to his feet._

'What is it? What's happened? _' he entreated, anxiously._

 _The look of concern in his partner's eyes was Mycroft's undoing. Unable to utter a single word due to the lump in his throat, he could only stand in the middle of the floor and let Arthur gather him in his arms and hold him, as all those powerful emotions were, at last, released._

Mycroft was in no doubt that the young Needham boy was merely repeating narrow-minded, bigoted comments overheard within the family home. Mr Needham was a wastrel, a drunkard and a bully. And it would appear that he was bringing up his boys in his own image. Mrs Needham lived in fear of her husband and would never dare to contradict anything the man said, whether she agreed with him or not.

And Arthur was right. They couldn't wrap the children in cotton wool and closet them away from the world. They could only swaddle them in a cocoon of love that they could take with them wherever they went. Mycroft hoped that Katy had been reassured by their bedtime conversation and that she would never again feel undermined or intimidated by anything that the Stevie Needham's of this world might have to say or do.

Much to his relief, Mycroft heard the tannoy announce that it was nearly closing time and all the children should leave the play area and return to their parents.

'Daddy! Did you see me climb the rope ladder?' Katy squealed, running up and throwing herself at him, her face wreathed in smiles.

'Yes, I did, my darling! Most impressive!' he exclaimed, helping her into her coat.

'Dat was weally good!' panted Charlie, rosy cheeked and out of breath. 'I went down de big slide all by myself and Poppah catched me at de bottom!'

'Did you, really? Such a clever boy!' Mycroft laughed, all thoughts of terror alerts, public scandals, flood warnings and bigoted villagers banished from his head.

ooOoo


	5. Until Death - Chapter Four

**Oh, thanks again to all my readers, reviewers, favs and follows. You are all so kind!.**

 **And thanks to my guest reviewers, whoever you are. It would be lovely if you could sign in and then we could have a chat! :)**

 **Chapter Four**

Sherlock climbed the seventeen steps to 221B Baker Street and opened the door to his sitting room. He paused on the threshold and scanned the room, taking note of all the changes that had occurred since he was last here, courtesy of not-his-housekeeper, Mrs Hudson.

All the dirty tea and coffee mugs had been gathered up, washed up and put away - in the kitchen cupboard, no doubt; the notes, newspapers, and other detritus previously scattered randomly over every horizontal surface in the room were now gathered up and stacked neatly on the dining table; the flat had been thoroughly cleaned – including the dusting! Now that Sherlock no longer lived here, there was little he could do to stop his landlady cleaning when he wasn't there.

The only thing that remained of the three-day occupation of his former residence - now his office - was the 'evidence board' – a collection of photographs, maps, scribbled notes, print outs and other ephemera - pinned to the wall above the sofa and crisscrossed by a myriad of coloured threads linking various items together. Mrs Hudson knew better than to touch the evidence board. The case may be solved but only Sherlock EVER touched, added to or took away items on there.

Unless something more interesting came along, he would spend the morning dismantling the board and storing the items in a cardboard file box. It was a practice that John had insisted on, in case he needed to check any facts when writing up his blog. This was the closest Sherlock got to a filing system.

His other priority today, unfortunately, was writing his damn Best Man's Speech. He had been putting it off since before Christmas, when Mycroft first asked him to perform that role at his forth-coming wedding to Arthur. And Molly was right about the reason for his procrastination.

There were so many things Sherlock could say about his brother – not all entirely complimentary – but the words he really wanted to utter could not be spoken in public. However, Molly's suggestion had struck him as being eminently sensible. If he could get the private version written today, the second – fit for public consumption – would not take very long at all.

Removing his coat, scarf and gloves, Sherlock tossed them onto the sofa and wandered into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. Then he would get to work.

ooOoo

Molly stepped off the bus, pulling the hood of her purple parka up over her head against the persistent drizzle. She hurried along the main road, around the crescent and turned through the gateway to Firs Lodge, the Hooper-Holmes' residence.

Since this spell of wet weather had begun, the family had taken to using the back door to enter the property rather than the front, as the rear entrance opened straight onto the Utility Room – or the Boot Room, as it had come to be known, due to the honour guard of wellington boots that lined the wall to the side of the door. This precluded them tramping mud and dripping rain all over the lovely oak floorboards in the front hall. It also meant that any wet coats or other clothing could be hung straight on the Victorian airer and hoisted aloft, to dry in the warm air up near the ceiling.

Molly skirted the front garden, passing in front of the sitting room's bay window. Glancing inside, she could see William sitting cross-legged in the arm chair, gazing intently at the corner of the room where the TV stood, watching his favourite wild life and Nature programme, as he always did at this time of the day. William was nothing if not a creature of habit. He loved his routines.

Having walked down the side of the house and round to the back door, Molly stepped inside and switched on the Boot Room light. The children's coats, hats and scarves were already hung on the airer and their boots were lined up under the radiator, to dry. Molly removed her own outerwear and added it to the collection, listening with a smile to the muted sounds coming from the other side of the kitchen door. Freddie and Violet were obviously having a lot of fun!

Pushing her feet into her slippers, Molly opened the kitchen door and entered the warm, inviting heart of the home.

'Mummy!' exclaimed Freddie, from his place on the kitchen floor.

He and his sister were sitting opposite one another, a few feet apart, rolling a ball between them. There was only one rule - the ball must stay on the floor and be rolled, not thrown, just a precaution to avoid accidents. Since neither Freddie nor Violet were terribly accurate in their rolling and catching skills, the game often involved scrambling around on the floor, chasing the ball. The pair derived boundless pleasure from this. It was their favourite indoor game. But the arrival of Mummy was a powerful distraction.

Freddie jumped to his feet and ran to greet her, hugging her round the waist and squealing with delight. Not to be left out, Violet rolled onto her hands and feet and bear-walked across the kitchen. She had adopted this mode of locomotion as her method of choice a couple of weeks ago and was remarkably adept at it.

'Hello, my darling babies!' Molly cooed, bending down to hug Freddie and scoop Violet up off the floor for a cuddle. She turned to Marie, the family's live-in nanny, who was just putting the finishing touches to the preparation of the family's evening meal.

'Hi!,' she greeted her.

'Just in time,' Marie replied, inclining her head to indicate the that the kettle was just beginning to whistle on top of the range. 'Tea?' she asked, rather unnecessarily. Molly had been looking forward to that cup of tea all the way home.

Minutes later, after popping into the sitting room to chat to William and hear about his day, Molly and Marie sat at the table, sipping tea and catching up on the rest of the day's events Freddie and Violet having returned to their ballgame.

As the briefing was concluded, Molly noticed a small pile of envelopes – the morning post - sitting in the middle of the table. She picked it up, shuffling the pack to see if there was anything other than junk mail.

'Oh, what's this?' she wondered, turning over a rather formal looking envelope to see who or where it was from. On the front, in the top right corner, she recognised the logo of the boys' school, St Paul's. The letter was addressed to both her and Sherlock so she had no qualms about opening it in his absence. Slipping the single sheet of vellum from the envelope, Molly unfolded it and began to read.

As she read, her facial expression gradually morphed from inquisitive...through bemused...to shocked surprise. On reaching the bottom of the page, her eyes moved back to the top of the letter and she read it again, beetling her brow in confusion.

Watching this strange transformation in her friend and employer's demeanour, Marie said,

'Molly? What's the matter? What does it say?'

Molly looked at the nanny and, without a word, handed the letter across to her. Marie took it and read,

 _Dear Mr and Mrs Holmes_

 _Since Freddie has been a member of our Foundation Department for just over a term, we feel we know him quite well and we are a little concerned at his level of attainment in certain areas, in comparison to his peers. There are certain age appropriate milestones which he has failed to achieve as we might have expected._

 _We would like to carry out a_ _multidisciplinary_ _assessment of his current stage of development in order to implement an appropriate programme of intervention, to meet his special needs and enable him to achieve his true potential._

 _To this end, we would be grateful if you could both attend a meeting at the school, on Wednesday afternoon at 2 pm, in order to discuss this matter, when our SENCO, Mrs Weston, and I will be happy to answer any questions you may have, at that time._

 _Yours faithfully_

 _Dr Braintree, Headmaster_

By the time she had finished reading the letter Marie's expression matched Molly's own.

'What on earth are they talking about?' she gasped.

Molly shook her head. The power of speech seemed to have temporarily deserted her.

In her mind's eye, she was scanning through the letter again and certain phrases seemed to leap out – ' _a little concerned', 'failed to achieve', 'special needs'_. She looked over at her darling son, Freddie, still playing happily on the floor with Violet, rolling the ball backwards and forwards and chasing after it when it went awry, chortling and chattering. Somehow, she could not reconcile those words with the child before her eyes. Freddie…well, he was just Freddie! A unique, charming and adorable little boy!

'I'm sure it's nothing to worry about,' said Marie, placing a reassuring hand over hers. 'Children develop at different rates. These so called milestones, they're only a rough guide. Some children fly through the early stages then slow down, others are late developers,' she explained. 'Honestly, Molly, I really wouldn't worry about it!'

As she began to recover from the initial shock of this bolt from the blue, Molly became indignant.

'What a damn cheek to spring this on us like this!' she hissed, trying to keep her voice low so Freddie and Violet wouldn't notice she was upset. 'I drop him off at his classroom every morning,' she went on, 'and never – not once – has the class teacher said a single word about being concerned about his progress.' She was careful not to mention any word that might alert Freddie to the fact that she was talking about him. 'Has she ever said anything to you, in the afternoon?'

'Not a word!' Marie exclaimed. 'Obviously, if she had, I would have told you or Sherlock immediately!'

'Oh, yes, yes, of course you would,' Molly agreed, mortified that she had come across as accusing the nanny of not sharing important information. 'I'm so sorry, Marie! How stupid of me! I know you would tell us everything! I do apologize…'

'I know, Molly. Honestly, I'm fine. I understand,' Marie reassured her. 'But no, the teacher has not mentioned anything other than the usual review of the day. But they wouldn't tell me if there was a problem. I'm just the hired help,'

Molly was shocked all over again.

'Marie, you are not just the hired help!' she exclaimed. 'You've known the children all their lives – well, almost. You know them as well as we do. You're part of the family.'

Marie smiled, gratefully, and replied,

'Yes, but they don't know that.'

Molly had to concede that point and, actually, foremost in her mind was how her husband was going to react to this unexpected development. She turned her anxious gaze back to the nanny and groaned,

'Oh, god, Sherlock is going to be absolutely furious.'

ooOoo

Molly and the children were in the middle of supper with Marie, who often stayed for the evening meal with the family when her boyfriend, Gavin, was working away, when Sherlock arrived home. Molly heard his measured footsteps on the path down the side of the house and saw his profile glide past the window. She excused herself from the supper table, leaving Marie to supervise the children, and went into the Utility Room to meet him, the letter in her hand. She needed to share this news with him as soon as possible and she didn't want to do it in front of the children.

As Sherlock opened the back door and stepped inside, he was confronted by the sight of his wife looking more than a little agitated. He stopped dead and gave her a rapid visual scan. It didn't take much deductive reasoning to conclude that the envelope clutched in her fist was the cause of her unease.

'Please,' he said, holding out his hand.

Molly placed the letter on his gloved palm and he grasped it, turning it over to inspect the object. The school logo focused his attention acutely. He quickly removed his other glove with his teeth, pulled the letter out of the envelope, shook it open and began to read. Molly moved closer, rubbing her hands anxiously, watching his expression intently. He wasn't giving much away. Then he looked up and she was relieved to see his eyes soften as he reached out, pulling her into his arms.

'It's alright, Molly, don't be concerned. I'm not going to kill anyone – not yet, at least.'

With a long exhale, she closed her eyes and melted into him. She hadn't even realised how tense she was.

'What do you think they're talking about?' she asked. Freddie was absolutely perfect to her – a little clumsy, perhaps, and he still had a bit of trouble with his hard 'c' sounds but he was only three years old! He had plenty of time to learn these things. The thought of her child being put in a box labelled 'Special Needs' at such an early age appalled her.

'I've no idea,' Sherlock replied, 'but we'll find out tomorrow.'

'No, not tomorrow,' Molly corrected him. 'The meeting is on Wednesday.'

Taking her by the shoulders, Sherlock eased her back so he could make eye contact.

'We're not waiting until Wednesday, Molly. We'll both take them to school tomorrow morning and we'll get to the bottom of this.'

He smiled, benignly, and kissed her on the forehead.

'Now, is that supper I can smell? I haven't eaten a thing all day!' he declared, putting the subject to bed for the time being.

ooOoo

 **SENCO stands for Special Educational Needs Co-ordinator.**

 **Teachers, please don't be offended! I'm sure that this would never happen in this way. It's just a plot device. :)**


	6. Until Death - Chapter Five

**Apologies in advance for the angst in this chapter. :{**

 **Many thanks, as ever, to you all for reading and reviewing, faving and following my stories. If I haven't replied to your reviews yet, I will shortly. I promise!**

 **Chapter Five**

After delivering the children to their respective classrooms - she taking William to his and he taking Freddie to his – Sherlock and Molly regrouped outside the school's main entrance and entered together. The Receptionist greeted them with a welcoming smile.

'Good morning, how may I help you?' she asked, brightly.

'We're here to see Dr Braintree,' Sherlock replied, giving the woman the full searchlight smile.

'And you are?' she asked, turning ever so slightly pink around the ears.

'My name is Sherlock Holmes,' he replied, 'and this is Dr Molly Hooper.'

'And do you have an appointment?' she asked, quickly scanning her list of expected visitors and finding it wanting.

'We do,' Sherlock replied, omitting to say that said appointment was on a different day, at a different time.

'Oh,' she exclaimed, a little flustered, 'I'm so sorry, I don't appear to have you on my list. Erm, just a moment, please, I'll ring the Headmaster's PA.'

She picked up a handset from the desk behind the counter top and tapped in a four digit number then smiled self-consciously at them both, as she waited for the call to be answered.

The call was answered.

Oh, hi, this is Dawn on Reception,' she announced. 'I have Mr Holmes and Dr Hooper here to see Dr Braintree. Unfortunately, their appointment isn't…?'

'Dawn on Reception' paused, interrupted by the person on the other end of call. She listened to the reply, then said,

'Ah, I see. Just a moment.'

Looking back at Sherlock and Molly, Dawn said,

'I'm so sorry but there seems to have been some sort of administrative error. Your appointment isn't today…'

'Yes, we know,' Sherlock interjected, still smiling seductively, 'but we consider the matter too important to delay, so we came at our earliest opportunity.'

The Receptionist began to relay this response to the Headmaster's PA but was interrupted again, since the PA had already heard what Sherlock had said and was speaking again.

'Yes, yes, I see,' said Dawn, down the telephone and then, to the visitors, 'I'm so sorry, sir, madam, but the headmaster is very busy this morning…'

'Yes,' Sherlock replied, 'as am I but I'm happy to make time for the headmaster, as is my wife, who is also very busy.' His smile remained in place but his penetrating gaze had taken on a hint of warning.

There followed a short pause, while poor Dawn stared like a rabbit in the headlights and the PA talked into her ear, then the Receptionist smiled again and said,

'If you wouldn't mind waiting for just a moment, Dr Braintree will see you shortly.'

Sherlock nodded his thanks and he and Molly moved away from the counter. Two minutes later, the door just to one side of the Reception desk opened and a tall, elegant lady in a tweed skirt and a twinset emerged and beckoned them to approach.

She led the way into a suite of offices off a short corridor and invited them to enter the room at the end where they were met by Dr Braintree, standing in the middle of the floor with his hand extended in greeting.

'Good morning, Mr Holmes, Mrs Holmes,' he said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. 'Please, do sit down.'

He indicated a sofa and two easy chairs, to the left of the doorway. Ignoring his gesture, Sherlock crossed the room to the Headmaster's desk and held the back of one of the upright chairs while Molly sat down then took the second seat himself. After a moment, the HM walked back to his desk and sat down facing them, still smiling but a little less catlike.

'Now, first of all,' he said, 'I do appreciate that you must be very concerned about Freddie, which is why I've agreed to see you at such short notice but I'm afraid…'

'No,' Sherlock interrupted, 'we aren't at all concerned about Freddie neither are we here to talk about him.'

The Headmaster was wrong-footed again.

'Oh, I thought… You did receive my letter…?'

'Oh, yes, we did,' Sherlock replied, taking the letter from his pocket and placing it on the desk in front of him. 'That's what we're here to talk about.'

'Oh. Right. Erm, in that case, I'm afraid I don't understand…' the Headmaster began.

'Neither do we,' Sherlock replied, picking up the letter and turning it over in his hand, scrutinising the envelope. 'Where are the trigger warnings?'

'I beg your pardon?' Dr Braintree asked, thoroughly confused.

'Where does it say, ' _The contents of this envelope may cause distress'_ '?' Sherlock asked. 'I thought one had to put trigger warnings on material that some people might find upsetting. Isn't there one of those…law thingies?'

The Headmaster's brow furrowed, as he struggled to make sense of what this rather odd man was saying. Sherlock gave him a moment or two and then continued,

'Is this how you normally communicate such sensitive information to the parents of your pupils? With a blunt instrument, straight to the cerebral cortex?'

The silence in the room stretched out, while the Headmaster opened and closed his mouth several times but still couldn't produce anything coherent.

'You see,' Sherlock went on, 'we don't understand why a person in your position – head of a prestigious school – would send such a letter, out of the blue with no warnings given, unless the intent was to cause the recipients great distress. Perhaps you could explain that to us.'

The HM's complection took on a purple hue.

'Mr Holmes,' he retorted, indignantly, 'if my letter has offended you in some way, I do sincerely apologise…but, since your wife had previously expressed concern about young Freddie's progress, we didn't expect that the contents of the letter would come as a surprise. We thought you would be pleased…perhaps even grateful…that the school was taking your concerns so seriously.'

'I beg your pardon?' Molly exclaimed. 'When exactly did I do that?'

'Well, Miss Trimble said…'

'I assure you, Dr Braintree, I have never expressed any concern about Freddie's progress, not ever!' Molly insisted. 'We are more than happy with his development.'

'Perhaps you have the wrong family,' Sherlock posited.

The Headmaster was flumoxed. Molly and Sherlock could almost hear the cogs whirring inside the man's head as he searched his memory banks for the relevant data.

'Did you not tell Freddie's teacher that you thought your son was physically uncoordinated?' he asked, at last.

Now it was Molly's turn to gape like a fish.

'I most certainly did not!' she gasped. Then a light bulb went on in her head and she said, 'Oh! I did once say – jokingly, I might add - that he was like a bull in a china shop. Which he is! Freddie doesn't tiptoe around things, he charges through them. That's just his way! It's not a problem!'

'That may well be so, Mrs Holmes,' the doctor rejoined, 'but what about Freddie's communication skills? They really aren't what we would expect of a child of his age. Have you considered your other son, William? How does Freddie compare with him, at a similar age?'

For someone whose older sibling had been repeatedly held up as a benchmark to which he could never hope to aspire, this was possibly the worst thing the Headmaster could have said. Sherlock's expression hardened.

'We don't compare our children to each other, Dr Braintree,' he said, acerbically. 'William, Freddie, Violet – they each have their own individual personality. They are unique, the best William, Freddie or Violet they can be.'

'And there is nothing wrong with Freddie's communication skills!' Molly jumped in. 'He's an excellent communicator, always has been, ever since he was a baby. He can command a room, just by smiling. He once engaged an entire cable car full of tourists, who were actually there for the view of Sugar Loaf Mountain but preferred to chat with Freddie.'

'Oh, but of course, his social skills are very well advanced but his speech and language are…quite delayed...' The HM said the last two words warily, apprehensive about how they might be received.

'Why? Because he says 'dat' instead of 'that'?' Molly exclaimed. 'Or 'tan' instead of 'can'?'

'Oh, so you have noticed…'

'Dr Braintree,' Sherlock intervened, taking the letter from its envelope and opening it out in front of the HM. 'Of course, we've _noticed_ how Freddie talks. He's our son. We hear him talk every day. So, he says 'lellow' for 'yellow' but he says 'yight' for 'light'. We know this. We just don't see how it's a problem. Therefore, we don't see why it warrants a 'multidisciplinary assessment' or being described as a 'Special Need'…'

He pursed his lips and impaled the head master with his steely glare.

Dr Braintree knew when he was on the losing side.

'Mr Holmes, Mrs Holmes, we appear to have made an enormous faux pas, for which I can only apologise, unreservedly. We have completely misread the situation. And, I agree entirely that a letter such as this must have come as a terrible shock to you both. I apologise for that, too.'

Both parents scrutinized him and Molly was assured of his sincerity. Her indignation dissipated immediately and was replaced by an over-whelming sense of relief. For Sherlock, by nature less trusting, the jury was still out.

'However,' the HM went on, tentatively, 'the fact remains that we are still a little concerned about Freddie's developmental progress. We think he may be dyspraxic.'

Molly's sense of relief vanished. As a scientist – a doctor – she viewed a diagnosis as a positive thing. It narrowed the parameters and allowed you to make certain assumptions about the history, aetiology and prognosis of a condition. But, as a mother, there was something devastating about giving a phenomenon a name. Up until this moment, Freddie had just been…Freddie, their rambunctious, big hearted, quirky, loveable, idiosyncratic child. Suddenly, all the things that made Freddie who he was were being given a name – and not a very nice name. The mother won out and Molly gave an involuntary gasp, putting her hand to her mouth.

Sherlock did nothing…for a second and then he leaped to his feet – causing the headmaster great alarm – and paced away, plunging his hand into his jacket pocket and pulling out his iPhone. He tapped the word 'dyspraxia' into the browser, selected an option and began to speed read a list of characteristics for a pre-school age child. Out of thirteen items, he could ascribe seven to his youngest son. Fifty per cent? That didn't seem very conclusive. Scrolling down, he found a menu of options and clicked on Speech and Language, finding another list of characteristics. This one rang rather more bells, particularly with reference to use of consonants. Sherlock had to concede that it described Freddie with remarkable accuracy.

Having accessed the relevant data, Sherlock spun round sharply and handed his phone to Molly then sat back on his chair.

'This 'multidisciplinary assessment', what does it entail?' he demanded.

Dr Braintree, relieved that Sherlock had done nothing more dramatic than consult Google, relaxed back into his seat.

'I'm not really the best person to answer that question, Mr Holmes. Our SENCO is the one you need to speak to but, unfortunately, she is teaching at the moment so she can't see you today. But she is available for our scheduled meeting, tomorrow.' He couldn't resist making the point.

'And, assuming that this _assessment_ confirms your suspicions, what happens next?' Sherlock asked.

'A remedial programme would be put in place and Freddie would receive extra help.'

'From whom? Therapists? Teachers? Who?'

'Again, Mr Holmes, I can't really say at this point but we do have a number of Special Needs Support Staff, who work with those children in need of extra help. They work alongside the class teachers, in small groups or one-to-one; sometimes they work in the classroom and sometimes withdraw the children and work elsewhere.'

No doubt the HM thought his words would reassure Freddie's parents but, in truth, the opposite was the case. Molly, still staring at the website that Sherlock had accessed but not taking in anything written there, felt every word like a stab to the heart. This was her baby they were talking about, not a 'child in need of extra help'. She felt a compelling urge to put her hands over her ears and block out the conversation on-going between Sherlock and Dr Braintree but her hands were not co-operating.

'And what if we refuse to have him assessed? What then?' Sherlock asked.

'Well, as Freddie's parents, it's obviously your prerogative to refuse an assessment but I must be frank, Mr Holmes, if Freddie doesn't undergo the tests, we won't be in any position to provide the extra support he needs. It could impact very seriously on his education.'

That was the final straw.

'I want to go!' Molly exclaimed, jumping to her feet and heading for the door.

Of the two men in the room, the Headmaster was the least surprised. He had seen this reaction before in similar circumstances. He got to his feet, mumbling platitudes. Sherlock, on the other hand, had been so absorbed with his own agenda, he hadn't even noticed Molly's distress so it came as quite a shock to realise that his wife was in tears.

He hurried after her, out of the room, though the suite of offices, into Reception, where he caught her by the arm and pulled her into a hug.

'I want to go home,' she hiccupped.

'Of course..' Sherlock murmured and guided her out through the main school entrance, on to New Change, where he flagged down a cab and they climbed inside.

ooOoo

 **Sorry again about the angst. I know this is a sensitive topic and one very close to my heart so, be assured, I don't embark on this storyline lightly. :}**


	7. Until Death - Chapter Six

**There's been a problem with the Review posting but it's fixed now! Thank you everyone who had read and reviewed this story. Your comments are very much appreciated. :)**

 **Chapter Six**

Standing on the main front steps to the University of Westminster, Arthur checked his watch. He had two hours before his next lecture, for the MSc course in Cognitive Rehabilitation. In seven minutes time, he had a very important appointment – at a bespoke tailor on Savile Row – where he would be having his third and final fitting for his wedding suit. He glanced up at the sky. It was still obscured by a thick blanket of cloud but, for the moment, the persistent drizzle had ceased so no need for a cab. He set off at a jog along Riding House Street.

By mutual agreement, he and Mycroft had chosen different tailors to make their suits. Mycroft's was being made by his regular tailor on Jermyn Street and would reflect his own particular style. Arthur had chosen to have his wedding outfit designed and made by the house of Ozwald Boateng – the youngest and the first black designer to open a store on London's most famous street dedicated to men's fashion.

Just before Christmas, Arthur had attended his first appointment, to be measured for his suit. He had met the tailoring team assigned to him and, working with the team, he had created his own unique design for this very special event, and chosen the fabric - mohair - and the colour - a rich, dark red. He had been both surprised and embarrassed when, during that session, the tailor asked if he had ever considered a career in modelling.

'I bet you say that to all the boys,' Arthur had quipped, in a vain attempt to hide his embarrassment.

But the tailor had assured him, very solemnly, that he most certainly did not.

'Sir has all the necessary attributes,' the man observed. 'Tall, slim, well-proportioned, good bone structure and – most importantly – clothes look very good on sir.

'Well, no, I can't say I ever did consider it,' Arthur replied, still more embarrassed for having been flippant. 'But I'll bear it in mind, if I'm ever in need of the cash.'

'But perhaps sir would consider allowing us to take some publicity shots in the suit, when it's finished?' the tailor persisted.

Arthur agreed to think about it. He wasn't sure how Mycroft would feel about his husband-to-be appearing in fashion magazines in his wedding suit! Prominent diplomat marrying ex-soldier was one thing; marrying male model… well, that was a whole different ball game!

Two weeks later, he had his first fitting or 'skeleton baste', where the pieces of the suit had been sewn together using a white cotton 'basting thread', with a bare minimum of interior construction, such as shoulder pads. This allowed the cutter to check the basic fit of the pattern and perform any necessary minor adjustments.

A week on from that came the "forward", or the second fitting. The suit now had all its major construction, including pockets and facings. The collar was not yet fitted and the sleeves were still at the same stage as the 'skeleton baste' but it was very close to completion. This gave Arthur and the team a true picture of how the suit would look, and he had requested a few minor alterations to the shape and the pattern.

Today was Arthur's third and final fitting or "finish bar finish". At this stage, the suit would be complete except for buttons and buttonholes and any hand sewing that might be required, and this was when any final adjustments would be made. Arthur was looking forward to trying it on so, since he didn't want to turn up all hot and sweaty, he kept his running speed to a gentle jog.

He arrived at the Boateng shop and was invited into the fitting salon where the tailor and his assistant were waiting, and they seemed just as excited about showing him the finished product as he was to see it. The assistant showed him into the changing room, hung the suit – in its bag – on the hanging rail, along with a dress shirt in his size, and left him to get change. Five minutes later, he emerged wearing the creation. There were no mirrors in the changing room but, in the fitting salon, every wall held a mirror so he was surrounded by images of himself.

The tailor positioned Arthur in the middle of the floor and paced around him, running a practiced eye over every detail, darting in to tweak a sleeve, straighten a collar or square a shoulder. Only when he was completely satisfied that the suit was a perfect fit did he stand back, open his arms in an expansive gesture and say,

'If you will pardon me for saying so, sir looks amazing!'

Arthur rolled his eyes to mask his self-consciousness but he had to admit that the suit fitted like a glove and accentuated his broad shoulders, slim waist, narrow hips and long legs. And, yes, he did look amazing!

'Will sir be clean-shaven for the big day?' asked the tailor.

Arthur had grown a sponsored beard to raise money for charity, in the Decembeard Appeal. He had intended to shave on New Year's Day but he had grown rather fond of the facial hair and – more to the point – Mycroft seemed to rather like it, too, so he had left it on. But now he wondered whether the tailor was inferring that perhaps he would look better without.

'Er, I wasn't planning to, no…' he replied, cautiously.

'Oh, that is very good,' the tailor smiled. 'It suits sir very well and it will look excellent for the photo-shoot…should sir decide to do it, of course!'

'I will think about it,' Arthur assured him. All this talk of photo-shoots, modelling and looking amazing could turn a man's head, he thought.

Satisfied that the suit was perfect, he returned to the changing room to disrobe and re-dress in his normal clothes. Vacating the room, he handed the jacket and trousers to the tailor's assistant, who hung them back on the hanger. The buttons would be attached, button holes cut and hand sewn then the suit would be steam pressed, bagged up and delivered to Colbert House, to hang in one of the guest rooms until the 'Big Day'. He and Mycroft had agreed that they would not see each other's outfits until their wedding day so they were both sworn not to peek.

Arthur thanked the tailoring team, took his leave and exited the shop. Respite from rain had been all too brief and the drizzle was back. He pulled up his jacket hood and jogged back to Uni, arriving in good time for his afternoon lecture.

ooOoo

The taxi ride home from St Paul's was little more than a blur. Molly knew that Sherlock was just as upset as she was at the news regarding darling little Freddie but their coping strategies were polar opposites. She felt completely overwhelmed by her emotions and she knew she had to give vent to this inner turmoil or it would consume her completely. So she clung to her husband and simply sobbed her heart out.

Sherlock, on the other hand, turned to cold, hard logic to address the crisis, banishing his emotions to a dark cupboard, in his Mind Palace, with a securely locked door. He wrapped an arm around Molly, aware that the circumstances called for such a gesture, as a stream of consciousness poured from his lips in a torrent of words, about how he would find the best people - top in their field - to take a look at Freddie and determine exactly what was causing this anomaly with his consonants and his balance, and devise a plan to correct the situation. He would start with the Speech Therapist with whom he had worked following the snake venom attack. Surely she would be able to help and, if not, he was sure she would be able to recommend someone who could.

He described how he had been back then, how he'd had to learn to talk and walk all over again - retrain his nerve pathways, re-establish muscle memories, reboot his cerebellum - but he'd done it…and Freddie would, too, with their support and his own tenacity. And he being only three - nearly four - years old, it would be a huge advantage because, at that age, he was in full-on developmental learning mode.

Having run out of things to say, Sherlock rested his cheek on top of Molly's head and closed his eyes, feeling the tension pour out of her with every sob, just like the tears that were soaking into his coat lapel. After a minute or two, the sobbing began to subside and she gave a long, shuddering sigh then pushed herself upright, fishing in her pocket for a tissue to dry her eyes and blow her nose, noisily. Then she plaited her fingers into his and squeezed his hand.

'It's going to be fine,' she said and he could hear the determination in her voice, rising from the ashes of her emotional meltdown.

'Of course it will be fine,' he reassured her. 'We'll make it fine.'

Marie was taken aback when both Sherlock and Molly arrived home unexpectedly but the sight of Molly's red-rimmed eyes and Sherlock's drawn expression was the main source of her alarm. She sat at the kitchen table, holding Molly's hand and listened intently while her employer and friend related what the Headmaster had told them. Sherlock made a pot of tea – the great British panacea – and left it to the nanny to make all the right noises. Marie seemed so much better at this sympathy lark than he was…though, that was probably not saying very much.

He was a study in agitation, pacing around, ruffling his hair, tapping his chin with the knuckles of one hand. He was desperate to 'do something', anything, to solve this puzzle but he felt torn between his need for action and Molly's need for support. So he was greatly relieved when she turned to him and said,

'Sherlock, you go and do whatever you need to do. I'm fine, really I am. Marie is here, if I need another shoulder to blub on. Go on!'

Sherlock swooped in and planted a fat kiss on Molly's cheek then disappeared through the door to the hallway, shortly after which, Molly and Marie heard the front door slam. Molly shook her head, with an affectionate sigh. Life was never dull in the Hooper-Holmes household.

ooOoo

Molly sat in the armchair, in the sitting room at Firs Lodge, with Violet napping in her arms. Marie had gone to collect the boys from school so she had the house – and Violet – to herself.

She stared vacantly into space, absorbed in analysing exactly what it was that she found so upsetting about the day's events. It certainly wasn't that Freddie couldn't say his 'c's or his 'th's. Nor that his physical coordination was apparently not what it should be at his age. They already knew that Freddie had many endearing quirks, for God's sake. And as for him undergoing some sort of 'assessment', well, that wasn't so terrible either. She felt sure that the experience would be made as enjoyable as possible and her youngest son did love to be the centre of attention. And, if they found out exactly what was causing the 'quirks', then surely they would be able to do something about it?

So what was so upsetting?

It was that phrase, 'Freddie may have a problem.' And that 'problem' had a name – Dyspraxia – which made it seem all the more daunting, like an incurable disease. She had read the information that Sherlock had Googled and Freddie did evidence some of the 'signs and symptoms' but not all, by a long stretch.

Yes, he was physically very active, very rarely still, except when asleep or – as William had observed, at the time – floating in water. His voice could be loud and shrill, at times, and he was very enthusiastic about life in general, which some people might call 'excitable'. But he was not easily distressed or prone to temper tantrums – quite the opposite, in fact. He often bumped into objects and fell over and he did tend to flap his hands when he was running but so what? He'd found it difficult to pedal his toddler tricycle, too, which was one reason why they bought him the balance bike – it had no pedals so problem solved!

Perhaps he did seem lacking in a sense of danger, sometimes, but more often than not it was because he was trying to copy William, who was physically more mature and had an extraordinarily good sense of balance and co-ordination. Freddie was a messy eater and still preferred to eat with his fingers rather than use a knife, or spoon, and fork, and he frequently spilled his drinks. OK, he was quite clumsy.

He liked Lego – well, Duplo, actually, which was bigger and easier to handle...and he enjoyed his big, chunky floor puzzles...but not the more fiddly ones. So, was that another tick in the Dyspraxia box?

He had a rather immature way of holding a pencil, in his fist rather than with a typical tripod grip, and he still used his baby scissors, which he only had to squeeze to make them cut, rather than having to use two fingers. He had found a way to cope! That was problem-solving, surely? His drawings didn't appear that immature to Molly. He drew round-shaped heads and put dots for eyes and stick-like limbs. That's what children did, wasn't it!

And he certainly could not be said to lack imaginative play. He loved dressing up and playing 'house' in the Home Corner. And he loved creative play. He was always making up stories in his head and acting them out, or acting out scenes from his favourite Disney films. And he loved to dance. All in all, he was a very creative little chap.

Freddie made friends easily. He had never been ostracised by other children. He was very popular. Everyone wanted to be his friend and he went out of his way to make friends with everyone. Look how he had persevered with Morgan! It had taken a lot of persistence, on Freddie's part, to win the other boy's trust.

He hadn't yet settled on left- or right-handedness, that was true, but he did tend to use different hands for different tasks – left hand for eating, right for drawing, and so on. It would appear, however, that he had a persistent speech difficulty in his lack of mastery of certain consonants. He didn't show limited responses to verbal instructions, neither was he slow to respond to questions, nor have problems understanding what was said to him. Freddie was a born communicator, either speaking or listening.

But did he lack concentration? Did he leave tasks unfinished? No, not really. He would sometimes get distracted and shoot off at a tangent but he was an inquisitive child so that was to be expected.

He was _not_ sensitive to sensory stimulation, such as loud noises, neither was he tactile defensive or funny about wearing new clothes. That sounded more like William… Molly stopped herself right there. If she wasn't careful, she would be seeing 'problems' in all her children, even little Violet, sleeping peacefully in her arms.

That was the thing, though. Sherlock and Molly's expectations of their children were not based on so-called norms. Anything they did was 'normal' for them. This comparison with other children went against their parenting philosophy. Was that so wrong? Perhaps it was. So, it was their fault. They were bad parents. They should have been more aware of what milestones the children were reaching - or not, in Freddie's case...

Violet stirred in Molly's arms and she glanced down to see a cherubic smile appear on those Cupid's Bow lips. Was Violet dreaming? And, if so, what might she be dreaming about? Probably Daddy, judging by the smile, or Freddie, her other favourite person. Now, Violet was a case in point. Bearing in mind the traumatic circumstances of her birth, was it any wonder that both she and Sherlock indulged her? But were they in danger of creating a monster? Violet could be a proper little madam, at times. But as the only girl in a house of boys, she would need to be able to hold her own so maybe that was no bad thing...

Ah, but there was the rub. Progressive parenting was all well and good but the Education System – even in an independent school like St Paul's – was built on the premise that children were expected to meet certain criteria. Maybe that was the real 'problem' – the system itself. It seemed to Molly that schools in the UK were locked into an endless cycle of standardized assessment of the children. Only last year, William had taken part in his first round of public examinations, the Key Stage One Standard Assessment Tests, or SATs, at the tender age of only seven! He had breezed through them, of course, his only problem being that he wasn't allowed to share his answers with some of the other children, who were clearly struggling with the tests.

'It's so unfair, Mummy,' William had complained. 'Some of the children were very sad because they didn't know the answers but the teacher wouldn't let me tell them.'

Schools now-a-days were judged, and rated in so-called 'League Tables', according to how well – or badly – their pupils performed in these tests. It begged the question, who was really being tested, the children or the teachers? Molly rather suspected it was the latter. This was quality control masquerading as Standards of Attainment. Schools had become production lines, the pupils 'the product', like a factory. And by that analogy, Freddie, it would seem, was faulty goods, especially if his lack of attainment dragged down the school's rating in the League! No wonder they were so keen to have him 'diagnosed' and categorised. That would let them off the hook, wouldn't it?

But Molly knew Freddie wasn't the problem. He was just a beautifully crafted _round_ peg being forced to fit into a rigid, unyielding _square_ hole. That was the problem.

Molly heard the sound of her boys' voices passing under the front window, as they ran round to the back garden to check on William's bee hive before coming inside. They sounded happy and excited and full of beans. Whatever anyone else might think, Freddie was and always would be her funny, sweet, loving, darling boy. Composing her features into a smile, she prepared to greet her children and banished all thoughts of diagnoses and assessments from her mind.

ooOoo

 **I just wish to make it clear that I am employing artistic licence by using St Paul's school in this AU to ground the story in the real world. St Paul's is, in reality, an excellent school and the staff would never DREAM of behaving in the way that I have depicted!**


	8. Until Death - Chapter Seven

**For anyone concerned about the lack of Johntent in my recent stories, worry no more!**

 **Chapter Seven**

Dr John Watson was sitting at a PC in the A and E Department at St Mary's hospital, up-dating the notes of his most recent patient before taking a well-earned coffee break, when the Receptionist came through from the front desk and approached him.

'I'm sorry, Dr Watson,' she began, 'there's a man in Reception who insists on seeing you. I've told him there's a three hour waiting time but he won't wait in the queue. He says it's an emergency – life or death situation. But he's refusing to register and insists there's nothing wrong with him! He says he knows you're on duty because he's already checked your rota. I think he might be a bit…' she paused to tap her temple with an index finger before adding '…deranged…' in a stage whisper.

'Is he tall and thin, with far too much hair and a long, black coat?' asked John.

'Yes!' replied the Receptionist. 'Shall I call Security?'

'No,' John sighed, with an elaborate eye roll. 'I'll come and speak to him. But you're right, he is deranged. I'm his minder.'

'Oh...' the lady replied, quite bemused. Dr Watson was known to be particularly sympathetic to the many homeless people that got brought in, often in the middle of the night and frequently worse for wear but this man looked quite well dressed and clean shaven so not your average vagrant. Still, if Dr Watson was his 'minder' then he must be... _safe_ to be around.

'Tell him to give me five minutes, will you, May? I'll be right out,' said John and May went off to do just that.

When John emerged from the Treatment Area into Reception, Sherlock was standing over by the coffee machine, glaring at a cup of offensive liquid held in one gloved hand.

'You don't want to drink that rubbish,' John said, right at Sherlock's shoulder, making him startle and look round, almost dropping the Styrofoam cup. 'Stick it in the bin. We'll go to the coffee shop,' he added.

He led the way from A and E into the Main Hospital building, along a warren of corridors, until they came to a central hub and there was a Starbucks.

'They get everywhere,' John commented, as he and Sherlock joined the queue at the counter. 'I bet when the astronauts land on Mars, there'll already be a Starbucks there, serving double espressos and macchiatos.'

He ordered a Skinny Latte and Sherlock ordered his usual black Americano, two sugars, and they took seats at a vacant table.

'OK, what's so important that you have to disturb me at my place of work and scare the support staff half to death?' John enquired, over the rim of his Grande mug.

'It's Freddie…' Sherlock began and, instantly, John's jocular manner evaporated.

'Oh, God, I'm so sorry, I didn't realise! What's happened?' John exclaimed, feeling sharp pangs of guilt.

'The school says he's dyspraxic because he says 't' instead of 'c' and 'd' instead of 'th' and he bumps into things so I just need to know whether Lily Rose can say 'th' yet, as she's about the same age as Freddie,' Sherlock spat out the words like a machine gun going off, half-cocked.

'Whoa, whoa, calm down, mate,' John soothed. He could see that his friend was in a manic state of agitation and he glanced at the Americano, wondering if that was such a good idea, but he said,

'Kids are all different. They do things at different times…'

'Yes, I know that,' snapped Sherlock, 'but apparently most kids Freddie's age can do it so I thought, if Lily Rose can't do it, maybe she's dyspraxic, too!'

'Well, thanks for your concern,' replied John, wryly, 'but, yes, she can say 'th' and 'c'. But it doesn't necessarily mean that Fre…'

'But that's not why I'm here. I need you to get me in to see that Speech Therapist woman I worked with – you know - before Freddie was born.' Sherlock was still uncomfortable referring to the period of time when he was recuperating from the snake venom incident. He had hated feeling so helpless and dependent.

'Well, if you need an appointment, I'm sure your GP could arrange that for you,' John replied.

'No! I don't want an appointment! I don't have time. I need to see her now, right now, today. But I can't just walk into Out Patients and demand to see her, can I? That's why I came to you,' Sherlock insisted.

'Well, you just walked into my department,' John declared. 'What's the difference?'

'I would have thought that was obvious, John!' Sherlock snapped. 'I don't need an appointment to come to A and E,' he enunciated, as though speaking to a child – and a not very bright child, at that.

'Look, mate, I can see you're upset but I really…' John began but Sherlock didn't give him time to finish. He pushed his cup of Americano away and jumped to his feet.

'OK, fine! You don't want to help. I'll do it my own way,' he huffed and was about to stalk away when John grabbed his coat tail and yanked him to a halt.

'Sit down, you bloody idiot,' he rasped. ' _Of course_ I want to help and if it's _so_ important that you see the Speech Therapist today, I'll get you in to see her.'

Sherlock returned to his chair and sat, retrieving his coffee cup and taking a disgruntled swig.

John took a deep, steadying breath and said,'

'OK, what's her name?'

'I don't know!' spat Sherlock. 'I thought you'd remember.'

John shook his head in exasperation.

'She was your therapist, Sherlock! You saw her every week for months! How can you not know her name?'

'Well, I deleted it, didn't I! How was I to know that nearly four years down the line I would need to remember her name?'

'Do you remember what she looks like?' John asked, trying to restrain his temper. At times, his friend could be the most annoying arse imaginable.

'Perhaps…if I saw her…' Sherlock conceded.

'You do realise she might not even work here anymore?' said John.

Sherlock was appalled.

'Why ever not?' he exclaimed.

It never ceased to amaze John Watson that his genius friend, who could deduce a person's entire life story at a glance, had so little awareness of basic human nature.

'Four years is a long time in a person's career, Sherlock. Your therapist could have moved to another hospital, she could have married, had children, run away to join the circus!'

'Why on earth would she do that?' asked Sherlock. His puzzled expression softened John's own.

'OK, maybe not run away to join the circus…but you get my drift. You can't just put people down, go away for three…or four years and expect them still to be right where you left them, when you come back.'

John graced his friend with a sympathetic smile.

'OK. Drink your caffeine fix and I'll take you up there,' he said, before downing the dregs of his skinny latte. 'If she's still on the staff, we'll find her. And if she isn't…well, someone might know where she's gone.'

ooOoo

Mycroft Holmes stepped from his staff car and crossed the pavement to the front door of his tailor. He had managed to escape from the office for half an hour for a fitting of his wedding suit. This would be his second and last appointment. His tailor had his measurements on record and an existing set of pattern shapes from which to cut the pieces of the suit, so the 'skeleton baste' fitting was not necessary.

Despite his obsessive concern about his weight, Mycroft's basic size and shape had barely altered since he turned thirty. However, his tailor had noted at his previous appointment, that since his last fitting – twelve months ago, before his brother's wedding to Miss Molly Hooper – Mr Holmes had changed shape rather significantly. His shoulders were broader, waist slimmer and he had the beginnings of a six-pack, no doubt due – though the tailor didn't know this – to Arthur's role as his personal trainer. The tailor had made the necessary alterations to the suit, to accommodate these changes, and added the information to Mycroft's records, for future reference.

Mycroft had chosen charcoal grey cashmere for the fabric of his three-piece, because it was light-weight but also warm, a handmade dress shirt, in white silk, and a black silk tie. He had no idea what colour or fabric Arthur had chosen but he concluded that charcoal grey would go with just about anything and he trusted his partner not to choose anything too outlandish. Arthur was quite sensible in his tastes, generally, and definitely in clothes.

The final fitting took very little time. Mycroft tried on the suit, gave himself a quick check in the mirror – noting with a degree of satisfaction the alterations to the shoulders and waist - and was in his car, heading back to Whitehall within twenty minutes of his arrival. The nation would barely have missed him, at all.

ooOoo

Molly and the children were curled up on the sofa, watching William's favourite wildlife programme, when her text alert buzzed. She picked up her phone from the arm of the sofa, saw that the message was from Sherlock and opened it.

 _Two extra for supper. Home by six. S_

Molly excused herself from the family huddle, transferring Violet from her lap into William's, and went through to the kitchen to update Marie about numbers for dinner.

'Do we have enough?' she asked the nanny, who doubled as the family cook on week days.

'Yes, no problem,' Marie assured her. 'I'll just peel extra potatoes and bulk up the stroganoff with a tin of chopped tomatoes.'

Marie was a keen amateur cook and was broadening her cookery skills by working her way through online recipe sites. Today's offering was James Martin's Saturday Kitchen beef stroganoff with sautéed potatoes, from the BBC Food website.

'So, who's he bringing home?' Marie asked.

'No idea,' Molly replied, 'but we'll know soon enough because he says they'll be here by six.'

'Perfect!' Marie smiled, heading for the larder to get the tinned tomatoes and extra potatoes.

Just before six o'clock, a black cab drew up outside the Hooper-Holmes residence and deposited its passengers at the curb side. The sound of the front door opening had William and Freddie charging from the sitting room to greet their daddy, with Violet bringing up the rear on all-fours. But they were all taken by surprise when two ladies stepped over the threshold and stood just inside the front door, smiling at the children.

'Oh, my goodness, William, how you have grown!' exclaimed the shorter of the two ladies.

William wrinkled his brow and studied the woman for a moment of two then stepped forward and offered his hand.

'Miss Blackmore, how nice to see you,' he said, in his very best imitation of Uncle Mycroft, who had taught him the correct way to greet people who were not family or friends.

Miss Blackmore took his hand and shook it, with a mixture of amusement and astonishment.

'You remembered me,' she said, smiling.

'Do you remember me?' asked other lady.

'Of course, Miss Cox,' William replied.

'Mrs Wainwright, now,' she said.

'How nice to see you, Mrs Wainwright,' he corrected, and shook her hand, too.

Sherlock had followed the ladies into the house and was currently fending off Freddie and Violet, who were competing to see who could squeal the loudest. He looked proudly on, wondering why he hadn't thought to ask William the name of his Speech Therapist. William had been the age Freddie was now, when Sherlock had been treated by these two ladies, but William had an eidetic memory. He never forgot anything.

Molly appeared at the kitchen door and was astounded but delighted to see who Sherlock had brought home for dinner. She and the visitors exchanged greeting hugs and Molly introduced the two youngest members of the family.

'So this is Freddie!' exclaimed Shirley Wainwright.

'Yes,' Molly confirmed. 'He was just a big bump last time you saw him,' she added, patting her now flat stomach. 'William, please show our guests into the kitchen, would you? And ask Marie to put the kettle on,' she said, taking the ladies' coats and handing them to Sherlock to hang on the coat hooks.

'I hope you didn't kidnap them,' she hissed, once the guests were out of earshot.

'Absolutely not!' Sherlock snorted. 'Once I explained the situation, they came willingly.'

He went on to tell Molly how he and John had gone up to the Speech Therapy department at St Mary's and been instantly recognised by the Receptionist who, as luck would have it, was still working in the department. She had paged Alison Blackmore, Sherlock's former Speech Therapist, who had emerged from behind the scenes wearing a broad grin and greeted Sherlock like an old friend - which he found a tad disconcerting. But he lost no time telling her about Freddie.

' _I don't really deal with Paediatrics,' Alison said, apologetically, because she remembered the family very well and would have loved to help them. 'But your old physio – Shirley - she works with children and adults. Let me just text her and see if she's on duty today.'_

 _Ten minutes later, Sherlock, Alison and Shirley were on route back to Starbucks and John was let off the hook, to return to his own department, and try to explain why his coffee break had taken twice as long as usual._

 _Sherlock ordered coffees all round and joined the ladies at a corner table to plead Freddie's case._

' _The school have recommended a full multi-disciplinary assessment,' he explained._

' _Well, that seems like a sound idea,' Alison replied but Sherlock pursed his lips, shaking his head._

' _I don't want the school to be involved with the assessment,' he said._

 _The two therapists were curious to know why not._

' _If the school initiates the assessment, the results will be on Freddie's permanent school record. He will have an official diagnosis. He'll be labelled for life,' Sherlock replied. 'I don't want my son labelled. I hate labels.'_

 _This was ironic, coming from a man who had proudly proclaimed himself a 'high-functioning sociopath' for most of his adult life but Sherlock knew that this was just his way of playing into people's prejudices, camouflage behind which he could hide in plain sight._

 _The ladies could understand Sherlock's reluctance. It must be hard, they conceded, for a parent to come to terms with the possibility that their child may be somehow different and might always be so. But they wondered what Sherlock thought they could do that was in any way different to the school's plan._

' _I don't accept that he needs a definitive diagnosis. All we need to know is which areas require some intervention and what form that intervention should take. And you can do that,' he concluded._

 _Alison and Shirley exchanged a look. What Sherlock was suggesting was unconventional, to say the least._

' _So, what you mean is, you'd like us to do an informal assessment?' asked Alison._

' _Off the record?' Shirley added._

' _Yes,' replied Sherlock, with an emphatic nod._

'So you invited them to supper?' Molly exclaimed.

'Yes!' he husband confirmed, with a grin. 'They said if they saw Freddie in his home environment, doing normal everyday things, they could see where he was struggling and give us some ideas on how to help him. So I invited them to supper.'

'And it's off the record?'

'Completely. They're just coming to supper.'

'But that's brilliant!' Molly squeaked, trying to keep her excitement in check.

'Of course it is!' her husband replied. 'I thought of it!'

ooOoo

 **Reference to the BBC Food website is my response to the BBC's announcement that the 11,000 recipes archived on the website were to be deleted, to save money! Fortunately, 250k people signed a petition against this and now the archive will be saved! :)**


	9. Until Death - Chapter Eight

**Many thanks to all my readers for your interest in this story, and especially those of you who have shared your thoughts and comments with me. Much appreciated.**

 **Chapter Eight**

Molly awoke the next morning with a lighter heart. She lay still, enjoying the sensations of Sherlock's light breath on the back of her neck and his arm, draped across her torso, holding her against his body. Waking up in the arms of the man she loved was the highlight of her day and deserved to be savoured.

Supper with the therapists, the night before, had been a master stroke on Sherlock's part. The ladies had chatted with the family, just as any supper guests would but, at the same time, had observed Freddie going about his normal evening routine – playing with Violet, talking about his day at school, eating his evening meal and getting ready for bed – completely oblivious to the fact that he was being 'assessed'.

When the adults reconvened in the kitchen, minus the children and over a bottle of wine, Shirley and Alison delivered their considered professional opinions.

' _He does have a bit of trouble with certain phonic combinations,' Alison, the Speech Therapist, observed. 'I suspect this is due to a general immaturity of his fine motor skills, specifically co-ordination of his lips and tongue, rather than because he can't differentiate between the phonemes themselves. However, I would suggest that you arrange for him to have a hearing test, to check how well he perceives the various speech sounds.'_

' _I would second that with regard to his motor skills,' Shirley confirmed. 'He does have a degree of generalised immaturity in his co-ordination, both fine and gross motor, which explains why he's a little clumsy.'_

' _So is he just a late developer?' Molly asked._

' _I would hesitate to commit myself without conducting a more rigorous battery of tests,' Shirley replied. 'It could be just that he's a late developer or it could be down to some underlying executive function disorder – such as dyspraxia, as the school has suggested – but whatever the cause, my advice about how to remediate it would be exactly the same.'_

'' _And what is that advice?' Sherlock asked._

' _Lots of skills practice,' the physiotherapist replied. 'It's how we learn all our skills – by frequent repetition. You know how that works, Sherlock. Whether you are learning to play the violin or how to hold a pencil, it takes lots of repetition and refinement to develop proprioception, build up the nerve pathways in the brain and commit the movements to muscle memory.'_

' _But he practices all these skills already,' Molly interjected, 'every day.'_

' _Yes, which suggests he may need some more specific intervention,' Alison replied, 'just as you did, in your work with me, Sherlock.'_

 _Sherlock remembered that all too well. He had been given a whole raft of exercises to practice several times a day. It had been quite gruelling, at times._

 _Reading his thoughts from his frown lines, Alison was keen to reassure both him and Molly._

' _It doesn't have to be hard work for Freddie. In fact, the more fun we can make it, the better.'_

' _What sort of activities would you recommend?' Molly asked._

' _Well, for his general gross motor co-ordination, you could perhaps take him to a gymnastics class – something like Tumble Tots,' said Shirley. 'The organisers like to get children as young as possible and train them up to be the Olympic gymnasts of the future, not that I'm suggesting Freddie has that sort of potential, of course, but for his age group, it would be just like playing but the activities are tailored to develop balance, co-ordination and flexibility.'_

' _What about dancing?' Sherlock interjected. 'Freddie loves to dance.'_

' _Well, yes,' Shirley agreed, 'if he already has an interest in dance, then that might be the right choice for him. Dancers have to develop a very advanced sense of spatial awareness in order to orient themselves within a three dimensional space and their body awareness and co-ordination are second to none. Dancing would be a very good choice for Freddie.'_

 _'And what about his fine motor skills?' asked Molly. 'How can we best help him there?'_

 _Alison took up the baton at this point._

' _Some lip and tongue exercises would be a good place to start, to improve his speech. I can recommend a couple of books that would give you lots of practical ideas about games you could play with him. Things like putting dots of honey around his mouth so he has to really stretch out with his tongue to lick them off. And if you do it in front of a mirror, he can see himself doing it and that would help him to guide his tongue in the right direction.'_

' _Oh, he would love that!' Molly exclaimed. 'Violet would love it too! We could do it with both of them, together.'_

' _And pulling faces – or 'gurning'! Children love that! You could do it in the mirror, or face to face, so he has to imitate you. And if you make noises at the same time, he will see which face shapes are needed to make which sounds,' Alison went on._

' _And his manual dexterity?' How could we work on that?' was Sherlock's next question._

' _The finger exercises we gave to you would be ideal. Do you still do them?' Shirley asked._

' _Yes, sometimes. And William does them, too, as part of his violin practice ' he replied._

' _There you are, then. You could all do them together. As for skill development, perhaps you should choose one or two specific practical activities, initially – say, fastening buttons or using a spoon and fork – and work on those. Again, I can recommend some books that have lots of practical suggestions, such as buying clothes with large buttons and, over time, gradually reducing the button size so that he sees he's making progress and becoming more independent.'_

 _Molly was feeling reassured, confident that between them they could use all these ideas to devise some fun and interesting activities for Freddie but she observed that Sherlock looked somewhat unconvinced._

' _What is it?' she asked him._

 _He gave a little shrug and said,_

' _You mentioned 'executive function disorder'? What if he isn't just a late developer? What if his_ _cognitive control and supervisory attentional system_ _isn't functioning correctly?'_

 _Alison pursed her lips, considering her reply carefully before speaking._

' _Look, I'm not a neurologist but we work closely with the Neurology Department, as you know, and the school of thought currently in vogue is that the term 'disorder' is slightly misleading. Just because a brain functions differently doesn't necessarily mean there's something wrong with it.'_

' _You are a perfect case in point, Sherlock,' Shirley chipped in. 'If your brain didn't work in a different way to that of most other people, you wouldn't be able to do what you do as a Consulting Detective.'_

' _The human brain is a very complex organ and there is still an awful lot we don't know about it,' Alison continued. 'So all these 'conditions' that we currently think of as 'disorders', one day, we might discover that this is just the human brain evolving, becoming more advanced. Let's face it, some of the world's most radical thinkers - artists, scientists and philosophers - are now believed to have had some type of 'executive function disorder' – dyslexia, autism, that sort of thing._

 _A recent study has shown that a significantly high percentage of graduates from the Royal College of Art have been found to be dyslexic and the population of Silicon Valley in California is said to include an unusually high proportion of people with Asperger's' Syndrome._

 _On that basis, Freddie could be destined to become the forefather of some kind of super race of human beings!' she exclaimed._

' _Well, I've always thought so!' Molly declared, with a cheeky grin that quickly faded. The rigidity of the school system was still her main concern. 'But, in the meantime, he still has to function in a world built to suit ordinary mortals and he seems to be finding that rather difficult, according to his headmaster.'_

 _After the ladies had departed, in a cab paid for by Sherlock, bearing a donation cheque for the Children's Ward Benevolent Fund – Sherlock had offered to pay the therapists for their time but they had asked for this instead – Molly and Sherlock sat up late into the night, discussing strategies and ideas. By the time they retired to bed, they had a plan of action, starting with their meeting with the Headmaster, Dr Braintree, and the SENCO, Mrs Weston, the very next day and Molly had the distinct feeling that neither would be very happy with what she and Sherlock had to say._

The alarm on Molly's phone began to chime, quietly, on the bedside table. She reached out and switched it off. Then, with great reluctance, she extricated herself from Sherlock's embrace and abandoned their warm and cosy bed to begin the new day.

ooOoo

Today was a special day at Colbert House in Hertfordshire. It was the day that Violet Vernet Holmes' best and oldest friend, the Honourable Caroline Bowes-Lyons, and her husband, Henrique Maria Chagas de Sousa, were arriving from Rio de Jeniero.

It was always emotional for Caroline – Caro, as she was known to all her friends – coming to Colbert House. It brought back so many memories, mostly sad ones. But more recently, the Holmes' family residence had been the scene of some joyous occasions – the wedding of Sherlock and Molly, little Violet's christening and, now, Mycroft and Arthur's wedding, at which she and Henrique would be Guests of Honour.

Caro thought of herself as Violet's representative at these family events. Following the untimely demise of her old school friend, she had made commitment to keep a motherly eye on Mycroft and Sherlock, who were both still in their twenties when they lost their parents in that tragic plane crash over the Amazon rain forest. She had kept in quite close contact with Mycroft from the very beginning but had only really come to know Sherlock eighteen months previously, when he and Molly had brought the children to Rio for an extended 'holiday'.

Much water had flowed under the bridge since then and part of their mission for this visit to the UK was to discuss with the Holmes brothers what had been happening in Brazil with regard to the foundation that Sherlock had established, to support the street children of Rio and the indigenous peoples of the rain forest. The news was mixed.

On the plus side, the team of lawyers that Henrique had put together, to assist in the fight against plans to allow industrial development of land belonging to an indigenous tribe, members of which had helped Sherlock, the first time he went to Brazil, had been successful. The bill, aimed at changing the Brazilian Constitution of 1988 to allow development of the Indigenous Territories, had been defeated in the courts and, although the fight was not yet over, this was a great step in the direction of upholding the rights of the Amazonian Indians to their ancestral lands.

On the minus side, the effects of the Zika Virus were making themselves felt in the neighbourhood served by the Children's Centre set up, at Sherlock's behest, by Caro and the Board of Trustees. Since Caro and Henrique's last visit to the UK, there had been an unprecedented rise in the number of Brazilian children born with microcephaly in areas where the Zika Virus was known to occur, and several of these children, and their families, were now being helped by the Children's Centre. Caro was keen to discuss with Sherlock and Mycroft the possibility of setting up a separate fund that would be ring fenced for the exclusive aid of these particular families.

So, this visit would be a subtle blend of both business and pleasure for the elderly couple.

Both Mycroft and Arthur were working – or, in Arthur's case, studying – when the guests' flight was due to arrive so the chauffeur, Mr Orgreave, had been instructed to drive to Heathrow Airport, collect the couple and bring them back to Hertfordshire.

It was around midday that Andrew, Mycroft's valet cum butler, came into the main kitchen at Colbert House and said to Mrs Orgreave, the cook,

'What time did Frank leave to collect the de Sousas from Heathrow?'

'Oh,' she replied, rubbing her chin, thoughtfully, 'he said he was leaving at ten for a pick up about eleven thirty. Why? Is there a problem?'

'Hmm,' Andrew replied. 'Mrs de Sousa just rang to say they landed over an hour ago and the car hasn't arrived yet.'

'Well that's very odd!' exclaimed the cook. 'He went off to the garage at eight this morning, said he was going to valet the car before he went to collect them. Hang on, let me try his mobile. He might be stuck in traffic on the M25. You know what it's like.'

Mrs Orgreave took her phone from her apron pocket and speed-dialled her husband's number.

'Hello, love,' came his perky greeting, almost straight away.

'Hello, Frank,' she replied. 'Where are you?'

'I'm at home, love. Why?'

Mrs O was dumbfounded.

'You're supposed to be collecting the guests from the airport!' she exclaimed.

'I know, love. But I've got ages, yet. I don't have to leave for another half hour.'

'You should have left two hours ago!' she squawked. 'Their plane has landed and they're waiting for you. They just phoned to say!'

Mr Orgreave shook his head in disbelief. That was impossible, unless the plane was early. He looked at his watch. It read nine thirty. Then he looked again.

'Oh, bugger!' he exclaimed. 'My bloody watch has stopped. What time is it?'

'It's midday, Frank!'

'Oh, damn!' he groaned. Then, 'Ring them back, love. Tell them to go to the coffee shop and I'll be there in about an hour. Terminal Five, right?'

'Is it Terminal Five?' Mrs O asked Andrew, who nodded, and she confirmed the terminal with her husband then closed the call. She explained to the butler what had happened.

Andrew pursed his lips with a grimace of disapproval. This was not the way the master of the house liked things to be done but it seemed to have been an honest mistake.

'I'll ring them back and pass on the message,' Andrew advised and left the kitchen to do just that.

Once Andrew had gone, Mrs Orgreave pulled out a chair and sat down, heavily, at the kitchen table. This was a bad business. And, worst of all, this was not the first time her husband had lost track of time or forgotten what he was supposed to be doing. Only the other day, he had gone off to the kitchen in their cottage to make a pot of tea and, several minutes later, she had gone to see what was delaying his return only to find him cleaning his chauffeur's shoes, with no pot of tea in sight.

'Oh, yes! That's what I came in here for!' he had exclaimed, with a sheepish grin. 'Senior Moment!'

But these Senior Moments were becoming all too frequent, Mrs Orgreave observed, and she wondered whether she ought to suggest to her husband that he go and see their doctor to discuss these memory lapses.

 _Still, no point worrying about it now_ , she thought. She got up and continued with the preparation of the family evening meal.

ooOoo

 **The Zika Virus, as you probably know, is spread by a certain type of mosquito in tropical and sub-tropical parts of the world and is now believed to be responsible for causing serious brain defects in developing foetuses whose mothers contract the virus. It is a major cause for concern in Brazil, in particular, and especially in view of the up-coming Rio Olympic Games, because of the risk of spreading the virus and causing a world-wide pandemic.**


	10. Until Death - Chapter Nine

**Sherlock versus The Establishment! (Never a good mix...)**

 **Chapter Nine**

'Mr Holmes, Mrs Holmes, do come in, please,' exclaimed the Headmaster, Dr Braintree, as Sherlock and Molly were shown into the board room at St Paul's school by the Duty Receptionist.

Sherlock scanned the room quickly and read the clues he found there.

 _Large rectangular table with sixteen chairs arranged around it – formal setting;_

 _Two female staff members present, seated at one end of the long side :_

 _First woman,_ _presumably Mrs Weston, the SENCO: complacent, self-important - accustomed to being heard and having her advice heeded;_

 _Second woman,_ _Miss Trimble, Freddie's teacher: looking down and to the left - uncomfortable, insecure, not happy to be here;_

 _Headmaster, Dr Braintree: at the head of the table, folder of papers in front of him;_

 _Two chairs (opposite the two women) pulled out from the table, intended for Sherlock and Molly._

 _Three staff in all, who had clearly already had a pre-meeting meeting._

 _Conclusion: HM well-prepared, taking control of the room: out-numbering the parents, deciding who sits where, putting himself in pole position at the head of the table – all to pre-empt any attempt by Sherlock to usurp his authority._

Sherlock approached the table, with a surreptitious smirk, and held the first chair for Molly to be seated then took the second chair himself. They had already agreed that Molly should do all the talking, unless the need arose to confer with him on a specific issue, but Molly hoped that would not arise as she rather wanted the meeting to remain amicable.

'This is my SENCO. Mrs Weston,' Braintree explained, rather unnecessarily, 'and Miss Trimble, of course, you already know.'

Molly and Mrs Weston exchanged courteous nods, while Miss Trimble gave a nervous grimace and Sherlock just continued to gaze around the room, even though he had already mapped and committed to memory every object contained within the space.

Having made the introductions and resumed his seat, Dr Braintree smiled, warmly, around at the assembled company and plaited his fingers together on the table in front of him, leaning forward on his forearms.

'So, may I welcome you all to this meeting – the first of many, I hope - to consider how best we might work together to help little Freddie over-come his difficulties,' he began. 'Now, Mr Holmes, Mrs Holmes, I would very much like to assure you that we only have Freddie's best interests in mind.'

'We appreciate your concern for our son's best interests,' Molly replied, 'and we're also very grateful to you and your staff for bringing your concerns about Freddie to our attention,'

The Headmaster nodded, self-deprecatingly, to acknowledge her gratitude and said,

'I'm pleased to say that we are blessed with the services of a highly respected Educational Psychologist, who will more than happy to carry out a detailed assessment of Freddie's current levels of attainment. Obviously, as you can appreciate, his services are in great demand so there may be a bit of a delay – possibly up to a month - but, in the meantime, we can continue to monitor Freddie and build up a file of anecdotal evidence that will help the psychologist to make a definitive diagnosis.'

Molly tried several times to interrupt the headmaster but he was on a roll, anxious to reassure these parents – both highly respected professionals in their own fields – that the school had a handle on the situation, so – like a politician being interviewed on 'Newsnight' - he pressed on, determinedly, to the end of his statement. But, as he paused for breath, Molly spied her chance.

'Headmaster, we understand why you would want to proceed with this course of action but Freddie's father and I have discussed this at great length and we really do not want to go down that route,' she said, perhaps a little more emphatically than she had intended.

Dr Braintree had assumed that the parents, having had time to reflect on the situation, would have come around to the idea that a full developmental assessment was the way to go. His face reflected his surprise that this was not the case.

Molly felt obliged to explain.

'You know, Freddie is still so young and – yes – he may be a little delayed in his development but only by a small margin and we feel that to burden him with a formal diagnosis at this stage would not be the right thing for him.'

Dr Braintree nodded sympathetically.

'I do understand, Mrs Holmes, really I do,' he said. 'It must be dreadfully hard, as parents, to come to terms with the knowledge that your child is not quite as perfect as you thought he was…'

Sherlock had been gazing out of the big bay window at the end of the room, giving the impression that he wasn't paying much attention to the conversation, but at the headmaster's words, Molly felt him begin to bristle beside her so she reached under the table and placed a calming hand on his forearm.

'That's really not the case,' she replied to the Head master. 'We have no problem accepting Freddie the way he is. It's all part of his personality and we love him for it. We just don't want to make a big deal out of it.'

Dr Braintree realised his error and hastened to repair the rift that he sensed developing between himself and the Holmeses. Mr Holmes, especially, was beginning to look a trifle murderous.

'You are quite right, of course. Freddie is only slightly delayed at present,' he acknowledged, 'but, unless we act decisively now, it is likely that the gap will widen, over time, and he will fall further and further behind his peers. That could be quite damaging to his general well-being, especially his self-esteem, and we really would not want that to happen.'

Molly listened patiently but she was not fazed by what she heard. It was more or less what they had expected. She was ready with her response.

'We don't intend to do nothing,' she explained. 'In fact, we've already done something.'

The Head teacher and the SENCO were curious, if not a little confused, to know what that 'something' could be.

Molly continued.

'Following our meeting yesterday, we consulted with some specialists…' - the Headmaster looked surprised - '…and they have confirmed that Freddie is a little immature in his fine and gross motor development.'

'Ah!' exclaimed the head man, 'so we are all singing from the same hymn sheet! That's good!'

'Yes, to a degree, we are,' Molly agreed, 'but with one significant difference, I think.'

'And what is that, Mrs Holmes?' asked Mrs Weston, more than a little annoyed with this couple, who seemed entirely unappreciative of the effort being made, by the school, on behalf of their child.

'We think that Freddie can be helped without the need for a formal diagnosis. I mean, is it really necessary to give a name to his slight developmental delay at this point in his life? We think that's a bit of an over-reaction.'

Dr Braintree had never been accused of over-reacting before and it didn't sit well with him but he tried to contain his indignation.

'The thing is, Mrs Holmes,' he replied, cautiously, keen not to cause offence by seeming to patronise this couple of high-achievers, 'without a formal diagnosis, Freddie will not be able to access the support he needs. We can't justify giving resources without a raison d'etre.'

'We appreciate that,' Molly assured him, 'but it may not be necessary for you to provide any resources at this time.'

'Really?' asked Mrs Weston, with just a hint of irritation in her tone. 'Why is that?'

Ignoring the implied criticism, Molly went on.

'The people we consulted have given us some guidance on how to help Freddie progress in his less developed areas…'

'Mrs Holmes,' interjected the SENCO, 'excuse me for asking but who exactly are these 'specialists' you speak of? What are their credentials and how, if I might ask, were you able to arrange an assessment appointment at such short notice?'

Sherlock directed his Death Ray glare at the Special Educational Needs Co-ordinator but Molly's restraining hand squeezed his arm and he swallowed down the tirade of deductive bile that was about to spew from his lips. Her excessive attachment to small furry creatures – five cats or was it six? - could wait for another day.

'They are friends of the family,' Molly smiled back at the other lady, whose tight lips betrayed her true feelings all too well. 'We invited them to supper last night and they observed Freddie in his natural environment. They agreed that he has some developmental delay and have given us some really useful ideas on how we can help him to improve in those areas.'

'Well, that's very nice, Mrs Holmes, but we can't really take on trust the informal opinions of your friends, based on observational information gathered in rather unconventional circumstances. This all too brief exposure to your child is hardly a basis for a definitive diagnosis…'

'We have complete faith in our friends' professional integrity, Mrs Weston,' Molly replied, calmly. 'And, as we have already said, we really don't want a definitive diagnosis at this stage.'

'You see,' said Sherlock, not able to restrain himself for a moment longer, ' _we_ accept Freddie just the way he is, whereas _you_ seem to think he's broken and needs to be mended…Ouch!'

Sherlock snatched his hand out from under the table, rubbing the back of it, where Molly's sharp pinch had left a lasting impression.

Dr Braintree was quick to interpose himself between the two rival factions of Sherlock and Mrs Weston, in order to dispel the air of antagonism that had suddenly pervaded the room, and placate the parents.

'Mr and Mrs Holmes, I am so sorry if you feel that we consider Freddie to be - as you put it - 'broken'. I assure you, we don't and if we have given that impression, then it was entirely unintentional. It is simply that we need concrete evidence that a child has a confirmed Special Educational Need before we can devote any funds from our SEN budget to provide in-class support.'

'I too apologise - for my husband's last remark,' said Molly, through pursed lips, 'but we both feel very passionately that we don't want Freddie to be given a label, especially at such a young age.' She gave Sherlock a sideways glance, just to remind him of his promise not to antagonise the school staff.

'But if you're uncomfortable about putting into effect the strategies our friends have recommended, that's not a problem,' she added. 'Freddie is only in school for six hours a day, five days a week and thirty five weeks a year, and at home with us for the rest of the time, so he will still benefit from the implementation of these techniques, even without your co-operation. Far more so, in fact, than if the situation was reversed.'

'Mrs Holmes...' Miss Trimble piped up, nervously. Sherlock had been analysing her body language for most of the meeting and had deduced that she was not entirely in agreement with the SENCO's point of view but was too timid to voice her objections so he was surprised and rather impressed that she had finally plucked up the courage to say something,

All eyes turned towards the young class teacher.

'...Mr Holmes,' she went on, 'I agree with you that it is far too early to say whether or not Freddie has any sort of specific Special Education Need but I would very much like to see what your specialists have recommended to help him with his developmental delay and if I can implement any of the techniques within the classroom, without needing recourse to extra resources, I would be more than happy to do that.'

Mrs Weston scowled, the head master breathed a sigh of relief, Sherlock gave the teacher an approving smile and Molly just tried not to cry.

ooOoo

 **If you've ever sat through one of these meetings - as I have, on both sides of the table! - I hope this rings true. It can be very difficult for all concerned but - at the heart of it all - is a small human being.**

 **Thank you ALL for your favs, follows and reviews - and just for reading my stories!**


	11. Until Death - Chapter Ten

**Well, this has been a frustrating evening, trying to get this to upload to Doc Manager! In the end, I had to copy and paste it! Still, at least it worked. :) And while I was trying to work out what the problem was, I wrote an bonus scene at the end! I hope you like it. :) I've changed the rating to M - for obvious reasons...**

 **Chapter Ten**

In the taxi, on the way home, Molly took Sherlock's hand and gently kissed the red mark on the back that was slowly turning into a blue bruise.

'Sorry about that,' she said, feeling rather guilty.

Sherlock shrugged.

'You were entirely justified,' he replied. 'We agreed that you should do the talking and you were doing an excellent job. I should have kept my word. So it's I who must apologise to you.' He smiled and, turning their hands over, he kissed hers right back.

'But I know why you did it and I don't blame you. This is personal for you…'

'It's personal for you, too!' Sherlock exclaimed. 'You're his mother.'

'You know what I mean,' she chided, affectionately. She was referring, of course, to the many times when people had seen Sherlock as 'broken and in need of mending'. _This must feel like déjà vu to him_ , she mused. 'And, actually, I think it was your comment that persuaded Miss Trimble to speak up. She obviously agrees with you!'

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. It mattered not one jot, who said what to whom. The important thing was that Freddie was reprieved – for now. This Weston woman was obviously an empire builder and her little kingdom was the Special Needs Department. The more children she had on her register, the more powerful she would become. Sherlock wasn't convinced that the SENCO would give up so easily on Freddie. She had lost this particular battle but the war was far from over.

Molly watched Sherlock's eyes flicking rapidly from side to side beneath his crinkled brow, as he processed these thoughts. She wondered what was going on in his funny old head but, rather than asking him outright, she slipped her free hand into the crook of his arm and leaned into his shoulder. That seemed to be the right thing to do because he switched his attention from his internal mindscape to the outside world and smiled down at her, squeezed her hand and settled back into the taxi seat, resting his cheek against the top of her head, and remained in that intimate position for the remainder of the journey home.

ooOoo

'Caro! How lovely to see you again! Thank you so much for coming all this way!' Mycroft greeted his late mother's best friend effusively, with a hug and three alternate kisses to her cheeks, in the Brazilian fashion. 'I do so hope the journey wasn't too tiring,'

'Hello, Henrique,' smiled Arthur, shaking the other man's hand before exchanging places with his partner to complete the greeting ritual. Then they all sat down in 'The Snug' and Andrew appeared, right on cue, with a tray of pre-dinner drinks.

Katy and Charlie, who had been entertaining the visiting couple since returning from nursery school, scrambled into the laps of their daddy and poppah to share with them the highlights of their day.

'I dwawed a picture of you and poppah,' Charlie informed Mycroft.

'Did you, my darling boy? How lovely!' Mycroft cooed. 'Did you bring it home? Can I see it?'

'No, I didn't bwing it home. Miss Sissons is putti'g it onna wall for Valentine Day,' Charlie replied. 'Evewybody did a picture.'

'I didn't!' Katy huffed, scowling.

'Oh, really?' queried Arthur. 'Why's that then, Katy?' he asked.

'I didn't want it on the wall,' she declared, pouting.

'Well that's OK,' he reassured her. 'If you don't want your picture on the wall, that's fine! But you could always bring it home, instead, to show me and Daddy.'

'I didn't want to draw you and Daddy at school,' Katy muttered, slightly teary, and hid her face against Arthur's shoulder.

'Because of Stevie Needham?' he probed, gently.

Katy nodded and cuddled in closer.

Arthur and Mycroft exchanged looks. This thing with Stevie Needham was becoming an issue. In the couple's opinion, it constituted bullying – picking on a child because something about them was different. If it was preventing Katy from participating in an activity she usually enjoyed, it was obviously affecting her quite profoundly, so it needed to be confronted but how best to do that? They would need to discuss this, later.

The exchange was not lost on Caro, who made a mental note to ask Mycroft about it at another time, when the children were not around, but right now the family and friends had a lot of catching up to do and the conversation turned to lighter subjects then the dinner bell sounded and they all rose and made their way, chatting pleasantly, to the dining room.

ooOoo

In Rose Cottage, an end terrace in a row of three dwellings that backed onto the main road to the village, Frank Orgreave was 'preparing' his own supper. He did this most evenings because his wife was the cook at the big house so she was cooking the evening meal for the family and their guests. She would be home by seven thirty and she and Frank would spend the evening watching TV, for the most part in a companionable silence, with a small glass of beer, perhaps.

Life in the big house was fairly predictable, nowadays. Since the children came along, His Lordship had made a point of coming home every evening. He would still be on call and often worked in his study well into the wee small hours but late night trips to London were rare, now. But when they did occur, it made everyone in the house a little anxious because that meant there must be a really serious crisis unfolding which, despite being a significant threat to national security, would probably never make the national news. His Lordship's business seldom did.

Frank took one of the pre-prepared meals-for-one out of the fridge – Mrs O always left him well provided for – and emptied the contents from the plastic storage container into an ovenproof dish and popped it into the Aga warming oven. Lamb casserole was one of his favourites and he smiled to himself in anticipation of enjoying the feast in about half an hour. Then he went into the sitting room and switched on the evening news.

'Frank! Frank! Where are you?' Mrs Orgreave called out, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

'Oh, hello love!' said Frank, looking up to see his wife charge into the sitting room and come to a sudden halt.

Mrs Orgreave had arrived back at the cottage she shared with her husband, where they had lived for over twenty years and raised their family, to be greeted by a haze of smoke seeping from the warming oven. She'd rushed across the kitchen, grabbed the oven gloves from the Aga towel rail and thrown open the oven door. The pall of smoke that rose like a pyroclastic cloud from the oven should have set the smoke alarm loudly a-beeping but it didn't.

She fished the casserole dish out of the oven and set it on the draining board then closed the oven door and, calling out, went in search of her husband, whom she found sitting in front of the TV, apparently engrossed in Coronation Street.

'You're home early. Did they give you the evening off?' asked Frank

Mrs O shook her head in bewilderment.

'No, Frank, I'm not early. This is my normal time. But what have you been doing, while your supper's burned to a crisp?' she demanded, impatiently, inclining her head towards the kitchen from which was emanating the distinct aroma of charcoal lamb.

Frank gave her a questioning look.

'Burnt to a crisp? How did that happen? I only put it in a minute ago. There must be something wrong with the Aga. Has the thermostat broken?'

Mrs Orgreave sat down heavily in the arm chair on the other side of the chimney breast, opposite her husband, and rubbed her brow.

'Frank, you really must go and see the doctor!' she pleaded, sounding more than a little desperate.

'See the doctor?' Frank laughed. 'Why? Because the Aga burnt my supper? I don't think the doctor can do much about that. We need to ask Charlie Meadows to get someone to have a look at it.'

Charles Meadows was the Estates Manager and organised all the maintenance of machinery belonging to the estate, including the domestic appliances in the employee's cottages.

'When was it last serviced?'

'There's nothing wrong with the Aga, Frank,' Mrs O replied. 'You just left the food in for too long. But we do need to change the battery in the smoke alarm. It didn't go off, even when the kitchen was full of smoke.'

'Oh, I took the battery out,' declared Frank.

'Why?' squeaked his wife.

'The damn thing kept beeping every time I made some toast,' he retorted.

Mrs O was appalled.

'Every time you _burned_ the toast, you mean!' she gasped. 'For heaven sake, Frank, it's supposed to beep! That's what it's for!'

'But it's bloody annoying, beep-beep-beeping all the while! Anyway, stop going on about it,' Mr Orgreave huffed and turned back to the TV.

His wife gave a sigh of exasperation. It was impossible to talk to her husband these days without him getting the hump. He never used to be short-tempered but just lately he seemed to be on a permanent short fuse. However, this was important. She had to have another bash at talking some sense into him.

'Frank, I'm going to make you an appointment at the doctor's as soon as possible and I want you to go and see him, do you understand?'

'Oh, for God's sake, woman!' Frank exploded, leaping up from his chair and rounding on his wife. 'I've told you, I don't need to see the bloody doctor! There is nothing wrong with me! Now shut up and get me something to eat – seeing as how your bloody Aga has knackered my supper!'

Mrs O recoiled from his outburst and sat staring at him, on the verge of tears.

Frank saw her eyes begin to shine and, rather than triggering his sympathy, it seemed to have the opposite effect.

'Oh, forget it!' he snapped. 'If you're going to sit there and blub, you can just get on with it. I'm going to bed.' And, with that, he stomped off up the stairs to the bedroom they had shared for most of their married life and slammed the door.

Mrs Orgreave fished a tissue from the pocket of her coat, which she was still wearing, having had no opportunity to remove it since returning home to find her kitchen in danger of catching fire. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes. What was she going to do about her husband of thirty years? He barely seemed like the man she had married, any more. She still loved him, of course, but the Frank that he was turning into…well, she didn't like him very much.

ooOoo

After supper, Mycroft and Henrique withdrew to the study, where a glass or two of Mycroft's favourite single malt awaited them, to discuss the latest developments in the campaign to defend the territorial rights of Chi'ipa, Sherlock's Amazon Indian friend, and his people to their tribal lands against the Brazilian government and their rich and powerful allies – the power company and the mining companies – all of whom wanted to exploit the Indigenous Territory for its mineral wealth or use the river to generate hydro-electricity, which they would sell to the highest bidder.

The team of lawyers that Henrique had put together to challenge, in the courts, a change to the Brazilian Constitution that would allow this development to happen, was just one of a number of similar pressure groups of environmental or human rights activists who had joined forces to fight this battle. Thus far, they had succeeded in having the proposed law change declared unconstitutional but the Government was not giving up easily. The contracts it could sign with the power and the mining companies would be extremely lucrative – not just for the Government but for individual politicians, too. So there was a lot riding on this campaign for both sides.

'The courts have told the Government they must abide by the terms and conditions of the 1988 Constitution and leave the Indigenous Territories alone but they are still looking for a loophole to exploit to overturn the judgement,' Henrique explained.

'Well, your team are more than a match for their lawyers, Henrique. You must have argued the case very well, to have overcome the corruption in the judiciary and achieve this very positive result,' Mycroft replied.

'Yes, Mycroft, but do not underestimate the influence that you have been able to exert through your diplomatic connections. I really do not think we would have been anywhere near so successful had it not been for the powerful lobby from the British and American Governments in support of the indigenous people, and for that we must thank you,' Henrique insisted.

Mycroft gave a self-deprecating smile.

'You give me credit far beyond my means, Henrique. I assure you, I have no such power to persuade…' he began but the other man raised a dismissive hand.

'Save it for those who know no better, Mycroft,' he said with a shrewd grin. 'Your reputation is widely known. The name of Mycroft Holmes strikes terror in the hearts of politicians the world over – not just the ones here in the UK!'

Henrique raised his glass in Mycroft's honour and Mycroft met it with his own. There was no point denying the simple truth, he acknowledged, wryly.

ooOoo

Arthur and Caro returned to 'The Snug', where Andrew had poured a beer for him and a gin and tonic for her. Caro was most eager to hear every minute detail of the wedding plans.

'We've chosen the menu – well, Mrs Orgreave has chosen the menu, Arthur related. 'We just said 'yes' to everything, actually! Mr O knows what's in season and what we have in the cold store.

Her daughter is making the wedding cake, as she did for Sherlock and Molly. Ours isn't quite as elaborate as theirs but we like it – and Mycroft wants to avoid any snide remarks from Sherlock in his Best Man's speech, he says. I'm not sure what that's all about but I'm guessing it has something to do with their childhood?'

Caro nodded.

'Yes, you guessed correctly,' she confirmed. 'Mycroft had quite a sweet tooth when he was a youngster and was rather a stocky lad. Sherlock used to tease him remorselessly, making barbed comments whenever Mycroft so much as looked at a cake. Sherlock can be very cruel, at times but one can hardly blame him, in the circumstances. It's just rather sad that he chose to take it out on Mycroft.'

'Well, that certainly explains why Mycroft is body dysmorphic!' Arthur exclaimed. There was still so much he didn't know about his partner's background. But Caro was the prime candidate to fill in some of the gaps and he intended to take full advantage, over the next few days, of her insider knowledge of the Holmes family.

'Mycroft has chosen the wine, obviously,' Arthur went on. 'I bow to his superior knowledge on that subject. But I chose the beer! That's my area!' He gifted Caro with a disarmingly cheeky grin.

'We weren't planning to have any 'extra's but Katy was adamant she wanted to be a Flower Girl and we all know Mycroft can't say 'no' to his little girl! So she will be a Flower Girl. Charlie wasn't at all keen on the idea of being a Page Boy but, at the same time, he didn't want to be left out so he's the Ring Bearer.'

Caro smiled at the mental image of Katy, dressed up to the nines in a frilly frock, strewing rose petals all around and Charlie, stiff and awkward in a two piece suit and a dickey-bow, fiddling with the cushion to which the rings were tactically stitched. It threatened to cause a cuteness overload!

'The nannies will be in charge of the children and make sure they're in the right place at the right time and doing the right thing,' Arthur continued. 'My sister, Rosie, really wanted my nephews to be pages, too, but the boys were having none of it so they're going to be ushers - showing people to their seats and handing out orders of service - a nice manly job!'

Arthur refreshed Caro's drink and poured himself another beer then sat back on the sofa and turned to face the lady.

'Mycroft was rather hoping you would sign the register, Caro. Would you be OK with that?'

Caro was deeply touched that her dear friend Violet's eldest son should bestow such an honour up on her. A swell of emotion in her chest rendered her momentarily unable to speak, which wasn't lost on Arthur, who simply smiled and rubbed her arm.

'I'll take that as a 'yes',' he quipped. 'And would Henrique do a reading?'

'He would be honoured to do a reading,' Caro assured Arthur, 'as I am to sign the register in Violet's place. If she were here today, she would be so proud of her sons, you know, and happy that they both found such perfect partners. I can see her smiling, even now.'

Arthur was completely flummoxed by Caro's comment and momentarily lost for words. Caro was a good and honourable person, who would never say anything fatuous. So she must truly believe that he was the perfect partner for Mycroft. That meant more to him than he could even begin to express. He looked down at his hands and his mouth worked as he tried to think of the right thing to say. Eventually, he managed to stutter a 'thank you' then took a large swig of beer, to give himself some recovery time.

'What readings have you chosen?' asked Caro.

'Shakespeare's Sonnet No20 is the first one – that's the one we'd like Henrique to read – and the second one is a Pagan Prayer. We've asked Molly to read that,' Arthur replied.

'Oh, how lovely,' sighed Caro, 'and Henrique will be absolutely delighted to be reading Shakespeare. He's a huge fan! I believe he's seen every one of Shakespeare's plays at least once – some of them in several different languages!'

'Yes, Mycroft said as much. I just can't wait to hear him read it, in those basso profundo tones - and his Brazilian accent! I suspect he'll bring the house down! And Molly will be awesome, too. She has the perfect voice for the piece we've chosen. We're very lucky to have them both on board!'

Caro had to admire Arthur's approach to his wedding plans – more like a stage director than a nervous groom. What an ideal helpmate he was to Mycroft in his busy life, with all its demands and responsabilities! Theirs was, indeed, a match made in Heaven. Speaking of Heaven…

'Tell me, Arthur, will this be a religious or a secular wedding?' Caro asked. She and Henrique were devout Catholics and their wedding had been celebrated at the Catholic cathedral in Rio de Jeniero, with all the pomp and ritual that such a sacred ceremony demanded but Caro had no idea what faith, if any, Mycroft and Arthur embraced.

Arthur's brow furrowed and he pursed his lips.

'I don't have any particular religious affiliations, myself,' he replied. 'Mycroft, though, is Church of England. But although the church recognises same sex marriage, it doesn't allow its ministers to perform same sex weddings which seems a bit daft to me. I think Mycroft came to terms with not having a church wedding a long time ago. Let's face it, he never thought he'd have any sort of wedding at all! So our wedding will be secular – with a nod toward the sacred,' he concluded. Seeing the questioning look in Caro's eyes, he added, 'You'll see, on the day, all will become clear.'

'I look forward to it! But I won't make you tell me any more secrets! Save some surprises for the day!' Caro exclaimed. 'And now, my dear, this old lady must bid you good night. It's been a very long day and I'm beginning to feel rather jet-lagged.'

Arthur stood up and he and Caro exchanged a hug then she made her way upstairs to the guest bedroom which she and Henrique usually used for their visits to Colbert House. She hoped that her husband wouldn't be too long joining her. Neither of them was as young as they used to be and a good night's sleep was definitely high on Caro's list of priorities.

Once Caro had left the room, Arthur sat down again and sipped, thoughtfully, at his second beer. The wedding was only a week and a half away and, now that the first guests had arrived, it was actually beginning to feel real!

ooOoo

Molly lay awake beside her sleeping husband, curled into his side, her head resting on his shoulder. It had been a very stressful day, anticipating the meeting all morning at work and then attending the meeting itself. Mrs Weston had made Molly doubt her own judgement, for a moment there. Made her think perhaps it would be better to have Freddie formally tested, after all.

When Miss Trimble came in on their side, Molly felt totally vindicated, but it was touch and go for a while! She was forcefully reminded of the huge responsibility that parenthood imposed. The decisions she and Sherlock made now could, potentially, affect Freddie – or William or Violet – for the rest of their lives. It was the weight of this realisation that was keeping her awake long after she and Sherlock had retired to bed.

She shifted restlessly and stretched her arm across Sherlock's chest, hugging him as close as possible.

'Whassamadda?' he mumbled, turning his head to rest it against her own.

'Nothing,' she cooed. 'Go back to sleep.'

'S'not possible,' he sighed. 'You're thinking too loud.'

'Sorry, darling, I'll go and sleep in the guest room…' she murmured, rolling away from him to slip out of bed.

'No…' he huffed, hooking his arm around her and pulling her back towards him. 'I have the perfect cure for insomnia…'

His eyes were open, now, and Molly could see them gleaming, in the dark, as she leaned over him and pressed her lips to his. They were soft and warm and parted to allow his tongue to taste her own. He reached down to grasp her hips, with both hands, easing her over to lie on top of him, where she could feel the strength of his arousal. This had an immediate effect upon her own and she shivered with the stirrings of desire.

Sherlock's mouth began hungrily to explore the soft skin underneath her jaw and down towards her shoulder. He pushed the fabric of her nightdress up to her waist before running his hands over her hips to squeeze her buttocks, pressing his pelvis against hers. Molly pushed her hands up under his sleep t-shirt and stroked the smooth contours of his chest, feeling the pectoral muscles bunch up and harden as he rolled them both over so that his body now covered hers.

He captured her mouth again in a fiercely passionate kiss and reached down to free his erection from the confines of his pyjama bottoms, his breathing deep and rasping.

'Sherlock…' Molly gasped, her own breath ragged and rapid.

'I know…' he hissed back and paused momentarily in his ministrations to her to slide his hand, under the pillow and pull out a condom, which he then tried to remove from its wrapper with one hand whilst continuing to nuzzle at the crook of her neck.

Molly plucked the sachet from his fumbling fingers and held it behind his back as she tore open the wrapper and removed the condom. Now that both his hands were free again, Sherlock pushed one under her lower back to tilt her hips and cupped her breast with the other, stroking the erect nipple with his thumb and nibbling at the point of her shoulder.

Molly reached down and applied the condom with a practiced hand. Since the incident with the deranged nurse and the bone saw, before Christmas, the couple had been obliged to use protection during their love-making, as a precaution, even though all the tests had been negative, so far. Better to be safe than sorry.

Now that the most vital pre-condition was met, Sherlock need contain himself no longer and, scooping Molly's leg up over his hip, he eased into her and heard that familiar, guttural moan that told him he had found her g-spot.

Wrapping her arms round Sherlock' neck, Molly hooked her legs over his buttocks and locked their bodies together, as they moved in perfect synchrony. Molly carded her fingers into the curls at the base of Sherlock's neck and whispered breathless endearments into his ear but, as the pace increased and their breathing became more ragged, Molly felt the tsunami wave of orgasm rise up to crash over her and she cried out in ecstasy. Even as she did so, Sherlock's roar of completion joined with her own and they collapsed in a boneless heap.

Lying in each other's arms, as the cold night air cooled their skin, they luxuriated in the shared experience of the post-coital glow then Sherlock pressed his lips lovingly to Molly's, rolled away from her, off the bed and padded into the bathroom to dispose of the evidence. When he returned, she was already drifting off to sleep. He climbed in beside her, fitted the contours of his body to hers and slipped into blissful unconsciousness.

ooOoo

 **Many thanks to all my readers for your continued support and encouragement.**


	12. Until Death - Chapter Eleven

**OK, folks, sorry this has taken a while but it's been a tricky one to write! And I must warn you all...MAJOR ANGST ALERT. But also some fluff. :)**

 **Thank you, everyone, for your encouraging comments. I do appreciate them, enormously.**

 **Chapter Eleven**

Molly came downstairs, freshly showered and dressed for work, and found Sherlock at his usual morning station – supervising Violet's breakfast - while Marie took care of the two boys. The self-help skills of the youngest member of the Hooper-Holmes family had progressed significantly in recent weeks and she could now wield a spoon with a fair degree of competence, transferring her porridge from bowl to mouth using a firm palmer grip.

Molly noted – for the first time – that Violet was nearly as proficient at spoon wrangling as Freddie and she scolded herself, silently, for making that comparison. She and Sherlock had made a pact, very early on in their career as parents, never to compare one child to another and it annoyed her that their recent encounter with Freddie's educators had put that thought into her head. She batted it away, with a fleeting frown.

'Mycroft just called,' she said to her husband.

Sherlock looked up, a wrinkle of curiosity between his brows.

'Oh? What did he want?' he asked.

'He just wondered if you'd written anything yet, since the wedding is only ten days away,' she replied.

'Oh, for god's sake,' Sherlock sighed, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, 'why is he bothering you about that?'

'Well, he can hardly ring you directly, can he?' Molly countered. 'Not since you blocked his number from your phone.'

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised and then realisation dawned.

'Oh, yes, so I did,' he conceded and turned his attention back to Violet, with a self-satisfied smirk.

'Sherlock,' Molly chided, ruffling his hair affectionately, 'why did you block Mycroft's number?'

'He kept ringing me!' he exclaimed, with a churlish pout.

Molly gave him an old-fashioned look and said,

'Stop ducking the issue, Sherlock Holmes. You're his Best Man and he wants to be sure that you are up to the task. Have you written your speech?'

'Actually, I have,' he huffed. 'In fact, I've written two speeches – as you suggested, thank you.' He gave her a patronising smile.

'Then call the poor man and put his mind at rest,' she replied, bending over to press a tender kiss to Sherlock's lips, which he reciprocated with equal warmth.

'I will speak to him today,' he agreed, slipping his arm around her waist to prevent her from moving away so that he could prolong their little smooching session.

'Mwa-da! Sepna!' Violet squawked indignantly, causing Sherlock and Molly to break apart, sharply. Little Miss Hooper-Holmes was not accustomed to sharing Daddy's attention, especially at breakfast time. She glared at both her parents then resumed eating, content that she had gotten her message across. Molly gave her daughter an indulgent smile and her husband another quick kiss then left him to get on with his primary task, as she helped herself to a coffee and a bowl of porridge.

ooOoo

The last few days having been completely dominated by dealing with the bombshell dropped by Freddie's school, Sherlock - despite his shameless display of nonchalance at the breakfast table - was acutely aware that his current most urgent commitment needed to be fulfilled at his earliest convenience but it was not without a degree of trepidation that he made his way, later that morning, to Central London and walked down Whitehall, stopping outside an imposing building, part of the former Palace of Whitehall and now entirely given over to the offices of various government departments.

He paused in front of the main entrance and looked up at the classical façade – reminding himself that vacillation on the pavement usually indicated affairs of the heart. Well, that was certainly true in this case. Steeling his resolve, he approached the front door and stepped over the threshold to be greeted by a security guard who asked him his business.

'I'm here to see Mycroft Holmes,' he replied.

'And your name, sir?' the job'sworth enquired.

'Sherlock Holmes,' he said, testily. Surely everyone in this building knew who he was by now?

'And do you have an appointment, sir?' the man asked, rather annoyingly.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment or two, weighing in his mind whether to say something extremely cutting, based on the rapid visual scan he had just carried out, but deciding this man was far too easy a target and not really worth the time and effort so, instead, he said,

'No, I don't have an appointment but if you ring Mr Holmes' PA and tell her that her boss's brother is here on urgent family business, I think you'll find she will authorise my admittance.' Then he smiled, ingratiatingly.

The security guard did as suggested and, a few minutes later, Sherlock stepped from the antique lift on Mycroft's floor and was met by Anthea.

'You're lucky he's in, Sherlock,' she informed him. 'Everything's full on at the moment, in the light of recent events.'

The 'recent events' to which she was referring was the vicious attack on a Member of Parliament right outside her constituency surgery in a Northern town. This had prompted a complete review of security arrangements for MP's and their constituency office staff. The availability of MP's to their constituents was a fundamental part of UK democracy but it had to be balanced against the safety of MP's outside of Parliament – where security was always at the highest level of readiness.

Mycroft had, naturally, been called upon to lead the review and it had taken up all his time for the last few days, attending meetings with Government Ministers, senior civil servants and the Chief Constables of the various police forces throughout the land.

Sherlock was forcibly reminded, not for the first time, of the enormous responsibility Mycroft bore on a daily basis for the security of the whole country and he felt a rare pang of guilt for turning up, unannounced, and imposing on his brother's hospitality. But, as he followed Anthea along the corridor and through her own office to the door of Mycroft's inner sanctum, he knew that if he had not come here now, he probably would not have come at all and, for that reason alone, he justified his actions.

'Mycroft,' he said in greeting, as he entered the office and saw his brother seated at his desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

Mycroft opened a drawer in the desk and deposited the papers inside then closed and locked the drawer before looking up to scrutinize Sherlock, deducing the reason for his younger brother's impromptu visit.

'Tea?' he asked.

Sherlock's hint of a nod was taken as an answer in the affirmative and Mycroft directed his gaze to Anthea, who ducked out of the office to fulfil her boss's request for refreshments. Then Mycroft turned his attention back to his brother, now sitting in one of the green leather wing chairs in front of the solid walnut desk, having removed his Belstaff coat and tossed it over the back of the other wing chair.

'Well, I can't say I'm not relieved that you've written your speech, brother mine, but you really didn't need to deliver it in person. An email attachment would have sufficed,' Mycroft said.

Without saying a word, Sherlock reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, took out a folded sheet of A4 paper and leaned forward to place it on the desk then sat back again. After a moment's hesitation, Mycroft stretched out a hand and picked up the paper, opened it and read. Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and waited.

Mycroft seemed to take an inordinately long time to read the contents of the sheet of paper, so much so that Anthea returned with a tea tray, served the tea, passing one cup to Sherlock and placing the other at her boss's elbow, and left the room before the British Government placed the paper flat on the desk top and fixed Sherlock with a questioning look.

'Will it do?' Sherlock asked. 'Because, if not, might I suggest you just write the damn thing yourself and _email_ it back to me _in an attachment_?' he huffed, repeating Mycroft's phrase back to him.

Holmes Major sat back in his chair and folded his hands on the desk.

'As Best Man's speeches go, it's quite…tame,' he remarked, with a gentle smile.

'Well, that's what you wanted, wasn't it, nothing contentious, no personal skeletons, no embarrassing family anecdotes?' snapped Sherlock, waving an impatient hand.

'Indeed,' Mycroft replied, not rising to his brother's petulance, 'but forgive me if I don't believe this is the actual speech.'

Sherlock jumped to his feet, outraged.

'What are you implying?' he exclaimed. 'I don't think I care for your tone!'

Mycroft sighed deeply and shook his head.

'Come along, little brother, there is no need for tantrums. Sit down and let's talk about this like grown-ups.'

Sherlock glared at his brother but after a moment's consideration, he sat down, picked up his cup and took a slow, calming sip of tea then placed the cup and saucer on a side table and folded his arms across his chest, in an unconsciously defensive posture. This was the moment of truth, the real reason he had come here rather than just sending the speech by email for Mycroft's approval. He licked his suddenly dry lips to moisten them, took a sharp intake of breath, as if he was about to speak…but didn't.

Mycroft sat still and silent, acutely aware from the moment Sherlock set foot in his office that his brother was in a state of emotional conflict. He had no idea what had brought about this current crisis but he was well aware that a wrong word or even an unguarded look, on his part, could send his highly-strung sibling racing away like a startled deer. So he waited patiently for Sherlock to decide which option to choose - fight or flight.

'There's something I've always meant to say but it never seemed quite the right occasion,' Sherlock said at last.

He paused, looking away, avoiding eye contact, feeling his heart rate increase, hearing the blood rushing in his ears, fighting an internal battle between the voice in his head telling him to hold his tongue and the one in his heart telling him it was time to let it all go.

Mycroft was not convinced that this was 'the right occasion', here in his place of work and right in the middle of a nation-wide security alert, but if Sherlock needed him – which clearly he did – then he was not going to turn his brother away. Mycroft sipped his own tea and fixed his expression in as encouraging and receptive a mode as he could muster. He had become something of a master at this particular look, over the years, and it had proved especially useful since he became the father of twins.

Sherlock had resolved, months before, that he needed to have this conversation with his brother but now the moment had arrived all his prepared words and rehearsed lines had deserted him – even though he had learned both his 'Best Man' speeches by heart. If only he could get the first words out, he felt sure the rest would follow, naturally, but it was the opening statement that were proving most tricky.

He could see that Mycroft was willing him to spit out whatever it was he had come to say and, perversely, this just made it more difficult. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and was immediately transported, in time and space, to the roof of St Bart's where Jim Moriarty lay dead on the floor, the back of his skull blown clean off and a pool of blood expanding, slowly, to surround his entire body.

Sherlock stood on the parapet, staring down at the bright blue air bag, which from this perspective looked ridiculously small and an impossible target to hit. He had to jump. John was standing there, behind the ambulance station, the essential witness to his 'suicide'. The stage was set for the grand finale. But the tiniest miscalculation on Sherlock's part, or the slightest gust of wind, could push him off course and, instead of landing safely on the air bag, he would hit the pavement and be killed outright.

He remembered the feeling of abject terror that had gripped him then and how his mind had gone completely blank as he launched himself into space, his body on automatic pilot, flailing his arms and legs to guide him towards the rapidly expanding patch of blue. And how he had twisted and turned, with mere seconds to spare, to land on his back and be engulfed by the bag, as the air was forcibly expelled by the impact of his body.

The sudden deceleration had knocked the air out of him, too but there was no time to recover. He scrambled out of the deflating bag and ran to the spot where, moments earlier, Molly and her helpers had deposited the substitute body. As the cadaver was spirited away through the red double doors, back into the mortuary, he had stretched out on the pavement assuming the exact same position and posture as the fake 'Sherlock', been doused in genuine blood from the hospital blood bank – fake blood would not have fooled Dr Watson, even taking into account the state of shock he would inevitably be in – and, at the last possible moment, pushed the squash ball into his own armpit to block the blood flow to his outstretched arm, the one John would grab to check for a pulse.

As these thoughts flashed through his mind in the blink of an eye, he took another breath and hurled himself into the unknown, once again.

'I know what you did, back then, after Mummy and Daddy died,' he blurted out then opened his eyes, a look of shock on his face that he had actually said those words.

Mycroft was completely taken aback – a very rare occurrence, indeed. He had done very many things after their parents had died so tragically. He had no idea to which of those things Sherlock was now referring. As he tried to narrow down the options, he was aware that his brother was expecting some sort of response but none was forthcoming. He was, in fact, rendered speechless.

Sherlock took his brother's silence for an invitation to continue speaking so he did.

'You see, when I came home from the clinic the first time, I really wasn't ready.'

Mycroft still had no clear idea where this was leading but as long as his brother was talking he could begin to formulate a theory, so he kept quiet and listened.

'That wasn't your fault,' Sherlock continued. 'I insisted on being discharged but it was too soon. I was very unstable, despite all the medication. And then the nightmares...' He rocked forward and back a couple of times before resuming, his voice low and barely audible. 'And every morning, when I woke up, I had these bruises and scratches and no idea how I'd got them.'

Ah! Now Mycroft understood.

'I thought I was being attacked by demons, in my sleep – that's what my nightmares told me - ' Mycroft remembered them well, those long nightmare nights ' - but I needed evidence, I needed proof,' Sherlock went on, 'so I set up a hidden camera…'

Mycroft's face blanched. He knew what was coming.

'…and in the morning, I looked at the footage,' said Sherlock, in a hoarse whisper. 'So, I know what you did and I just wanted to…thank you.'

Yes, those long nightmare nights were as clear in Mycroft's memory as if it had been only yesterday.

 _The first time it happened, Mycroft was awoken by the sound of his brother screaming in abject terror. Rushing to Sherlock's room, he had been horrified to see his sibling thrashing around, throwing himself from side to side, banging his head, repeatedly, against the wall and clawing at his own face, chest and arms. Mycroft had run over to the bed, grabbed Sherlock by his upper arms and held him down on the mattress, while he kicked and screamed and tried to fight his brother off._

 _And when, eventually, the thrashing and screaming subsided, Mycroft had taken Sherlock into his arms and held him, stroking his head and rocking him, uttering gentle words to sooth and calm him. Then he had laid him back on his pillows, drawn the duvet over him, and sat with him for the rest of the night, just in case it happened again. Mycroft had done this every night for a week until the episodes stopped, just as suddenly as they had begun._

 _He had never mentioned this to a living soul, not even Arthur. He had no idea that Sherlock had filmed these incidents, had no idea that his brother had known, all this time, about what had occurred at that difficult point in his life. Mycroft had thought many times, since, about telling him but he hardly knew where to start and, anyway, it seemed better that those dark days stayed where they belonged, in the past._

'Because not only did you take care of me then - ' Sherlock was speaking again ' - but you've taken care of me any number of times since and I've never really told you how much I appreciate what you've done for me - and my family.'

Mycroft became aware that his face was still frozen in an expression of utter astonishment – and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

ooOoo

 **Well, I did warn you it was angsty! :)**


	13. Until Death - Chapter Twelve

**Sorry, more angst, I'm afraid...**

 **Chapter Twelve**

Sherlock climbed the seventeen stairs to his flat at 221B Baker Street and entered through the side door, straight into the kitchen. He crossed to the far side of the room and opened one of the wall cupboards, reaching to the back of the top shelf and taking out a half empty bottle of cognac.

Sherlock was not a drinker. Apart from the occasional glass of wine with Molly, after the children had gone to bed, he didn't drink alcohol at all but right now, he needed a stiff drink.

He looked around but could not find anything that resembled a brandy glass so he picked up a china cup – one of Mrs Hudson's favourite tea set pieces – from the draining board and poured a glug of brandy into it. Sherlock took a swig and swallowed convulsively, feeling the fiery glow of the cognac spreading through his veins and taking with it a sense of lightness, a release of tension so profound it left him feeling giddy.

Taking the bottle and the cup with him, he stumbled into the sitting room, flopped down into his chair and took another hefty slurp of the warming liquor.

It had been hard to tell which brother was most shocked at the revelation Sherlock had shared. The disclosure certainly had not gone as he had planned or intended but, once he started talking, he seemed unable to stop until he had blurted out the whole story.

 _The expression on Mycroft's face was almost as alarming as the realisation of what he had just revealed. Sherlock had no idea how his brother was likely to take the news that he had kept this knowledge secret for nearly twenty years. Had the positions been reversed, he knew he would have felt cheated, deceived, ill-used. But that was his default position where his relationship with his brother was concerned – react first, rationalise later. That wasn't Mycroft's way. His responses were always measured and considered – which was why the shocked expression was so alarming._

' _As I said,' Sherlock stammered, at last, in a bid to break the uncomfortable silence. 'I've meant to say something, always, but…'_

' _Sherlock,' Mycroft sighed, shaking his head as he rose from his seat and walked around to the front of his desk, 'it really doesn't matter that you didn't tell me before.' He perched on the edge of his desk and looking down at Sherlock with a bemused expression. 'What's important is that you've told me now,' he smiled, almost wistfully. 'And of course I care for you…then and always. You are my dear brother, after all.'_

 _Mycroft was still looking at him in that odd way and Sherlock had a horrible feeling that his brother might be about to hug him or something and he wanted desperately to leave but didn't entirely trust his ability to walk, just at the moment. But, nevertheless, he scrambled to his feet._

' _Good, good!' he gabbled, 'that's good then. OK, so, if the speech is acceptable then, fine. That's it, then. I'll…er…yes…'_

' _No, Sherlock,' Mycroft interjected, raising a cautioning hand, 'the speech is not OK.'_

' _What? Why? I thought you said…' Sherlock began to splutter._

 _Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder to silence him._

' _Write the speech_ you _want to write, Sherlock, with as many embarrassing anecdotes as you like,' he said, with an indulgent smile. 'You can even make a cake joke, if you wish,' he added._

 _Sherlock stared at him, nonplussed, scrutinizing his features to ascertain his intentions._

' _Yes, I mean it,' said Mycroft. 'And I don't need to see it in advance. I trust you, Sherlock, you're my brother.'_

Sherlock could not get out of that room quickly enough and the journey home was something of a blur. He had hailed a cab outside Mycroft's building and it had deposited him at his own front door. Beyond that, he had no recollection. Now, sitting in the familiar and reassuring surroundings of his former home - and now his business address - he was grateful for the quiet and the privacy in which to get his head around what had happened today.

Sherlock was not good at bearing his soul. A lifetime of masking his true feelings and presenting an arrogant, aloof and impenetrable façade to the world was not easily set aside. He could do it for Molly - though nine times out of ten she had already discerned his most private thoughts anyway, and this made opening up so much easier. And he had learned to do it to some degree for John and Mrs Hudson but that was the sum total of his inner circle. And so far as Mycroft was concerned, well, the only emotions he projected in that direction were usually anger, disdain and ridicule.

He knew this to be grossly unfair. The antagonism between him and his brother was largely historical – and ancient history at that. Some wounds, it seemed, would never heal. But maybe it was time he stopped blaming Mycroft for everything that was wrong with the world. He was a powerful man but surely even he had his limits. The fact was, there was so much more to this than petty childhood quarrels. The damage went deep, through bone and sinew, right to the heart.

Sherlock rubbed his chest, unselfconsciously, and took another sip of the brandy.

By going to see Mycroft, today, in private and telling him the most intimate secret they both shared – though only Sherlock knew that - he had hoped it would establish some basis, some common ground, on which he and his brother could begin to build a better relationship. He hoped it might go some way to clearing the air between them. And, on the face of it, it had succeeded – Mycroft certainly seemed to think so. He'd given him carte blanche on the speech, for god's sake!

But, from Sherlock's perspective, far from being a cathartic experience, it seemed to have made matters worse. He had opened a door to very a dark place where his worst memories were contained and they had come bubbling to the surface in a miasma of thoughts, feelings, images and impressions.

He was overwhelmed.

The hand holding the cup began to tremble and the palpitations spread to his entire body. Grasping the bottle and the cup, he lurched across the room and fumbled them onto the coffee table as he crashed onto the sofa and closed his eyes. He was nauseous, his skin felt cold and clammy, his extremities were going numb. A voice inside his head - which sounded very much like Molly - said calmly,

'You're going into shock.'

ooOoo

Downstairs in her sitting room, enjoying a very welcome mid-morning break from the house work, and nursing a fresh cup of tea, Mrs Hudson heard the front door open and someone come inside. She listened as the intruder mounted the stairs with a rather uneven gait, very different from Sherlock's usual athletic lope, and she tracked them across the ceiling into the kitchen then over to the fireplace, where he or she settled for a while, then crossed hurriedly to the sofa and punctuated their progress with a loud thump – followed by silence.

Her suspicions aroused, Mrs H placed her tea cup on the side table and picked up the poker from the hearth. She wasn't sure what she might find up there so best be prepared to defend herself. She crept up the stairs to the main landing and gently pushed open the door to Sherlock's sitting room. The curtains were drawn back – she'd seen to that herself earlier that morning – and by the light from the window she took in the half empty brandy bottle and the cup and Sherlock draped untidily across the sofa, apparently asleep.

'Sherlock?' she exclaimed, crossing the room and leaning over to shake his shoulder. As she did so, she caught a whiff of his breath and recoiled with disgust at the strong aroma of alcohol.

'Oh, Sherlock…' she wailed. 'At this time of the morning?'

She looked down at him, shaking her head in dismay, picked up the bottle and the cup and retreated to the kitchen. She placed the offending items on the table and, taking her mobile phone from her apron pocket, speed-dialling a number.

ooOoo

John Watson was inspecting some x-rays that had just been posted on the hospital network by the Radiology Department. They belonged to the young patient sitting on his mother's knee in the first cubicle, feeling rather sorry for himself. The three year old had been trying to climb over the garden fence to retrieve his ball from next door's garden but had clearly bitten off far more than he could chew and come a bit of a cropper.

John could see at a glance the tell-tale signs of greenstick fractures of the child's radius and ulna in his right forearm, where he had obviously fallen with outstretched arms. The two bones had suffered the consequences. These injuries were very common in children of around this age, especially the more adventurous ones, and this mother had rather suspected that this would be the diagnosis. John walked back into the cubicle, shaking his head with a wry smile.

'I'm afraid you're going to have to take a trip to the plaster room,' he told her, winking at the little boy who cuddled into his mother's chest and tried to hide his face. 'They'll fit a temporary plaster cast today and give you an appointment for the Fracture Clinic in a day or two, when the swelling's gone down a bit, and then fit a fibreglass cast. They're much lighter weight than the old Plaster of Paris ones. After a while, he'll forget he's even wearing it!'

'That's what I'm worried about,' the mother replied, with a grimace. 'He'll be climbing that bloody fence again before you know it!'

John ruffled the boy's hair and said 'good day' to the mother as the nurse gave her a pass for the Plaster Room and sent her and the child on their way. He felt his phone vibrate in the back pocket of his scrubs and pulled it out to see that Mrs Hudson was the named caller.

'Hey-up, Mrs H, what can I do for you?' he asked cheerfully.

'Oh, John,' she whined, immediately grabbing his attention, 'it's Sherlock. I don't know what's happened to make him get in this state but I've just found him crashed out on the sofa, dead drunk! It looks as though he's polished off the best part of half a bottle of brandy!'

John stood stock still, open-mouthed, processing this information for a full thirty seconds until Mrs Hudson asked,

'John? Are you still there?'

'Yes, yes, I'm here,' he assured her. 'Dead drunk, did you say?'

'Oh, yes. Spark out!' she replied. 'I tried shaking him and calling his name but he didn't even twitch.'

'And how is he lying?' he asked.

'On the sofa,' she replied.

'No, no,' John held up his hand, even though Mrs Hudson couldn't actually see him. 'I mean, is he on his back...on his front?'

'No, he's lying on his side…sort of. Yes, mostly on his side,' she advised him.

'That's good,' John replied. At least if he started to vomit he would be unlikely to inhale and asphyxiate. 'Look, I'm on my way. Have you spoken to Molly?'

'No, I didn't like to ring her. I mean, if they've had a domestic, well, it's their business isn't it?'

'Not if he's crashed out in your house, Mrs H, no, it isn't,' John replied. 'Just keep an eye on him, will you? I'll be there as soon as I can.'

It was a bit early for lunch but John called out to one of his colleagues to say he was taking an extended break and would be back in an hour then shot out of the department and didn't even stop to change his clothes.

Barely ten minutes later, he ran up the stairs, two at a time, and charged into the sitting room of 221B to be met by Mrs Hudson, rubbing her hands anxiously.

'He hasn't moved or said anything,' she declared, indicating the body on the sofa, covered in a thermal blanket. 'I covered him up because he was shivering.'

John walked past her and sat down on the coffee table, leaning forward to check that Sherlock was still breathing, and pressing his fingers to the carotid pulse point. His pulse was irregular, his breathing shallow and rapid and he felt cold and clammy to the touch.

'Sherlock? Can you hear me, Sherlock?' he asked, insistently, carrying out a visual scan to assess the condition of the patient. He looked pale, not flushed as one would expect if he were drunk.

'How long's he been like this, Mrs H?' John asked.

'Oh, about twenty minutes, maybe half an hour,' she replied, hovering in the back ground, giving off waves of concern.

'And what made you think he was drunk?'

'The brandy bottle!' she exclaimed, pointing at the very thing, on the kitchen table. 'And I could smell it on his breath,' she added, almost apologetically.

John leaned in to sniff Sherlock's breath. There was a faint hint of alcohol but it wasn't strong. And had he been drunk enough to pass out, the likelihood was his sweat would smell of alcohol too but it didn't – and he was sweating profusely, even though he was cool to the touch.

'He's not drunk, Mrs H…'John began.

'Oh, not…drugs!' the landlady squeaked.

'No,' John replied, bending down to scoop his arm under Sherlock's knees and elevate his legs, over the arm of the sofa. 'He's in shock…but you did the right thing – kept him warm, in the recovery position, monitored his breathing. Well done!' He gave the old lady a reassuring smile. 'I'm a bit concerned that he's been unconscious for half an hour, though. I think you should dial 999 and ask for an ambulance…'

' _Nuh…_ ' came a breathy voice from under the blanket, ' _I doh' need an amb'l'nce…_ '

'Sherlock, I'm the one with the medical degree and I beg to differ,' John retorted, turning down the edge of the blanket to look at his friend's ghostly white face. Truth be told, since he had raised Sherlock's legs above his heart, his colour had begun to improve. Obviously, the effort of pumping blood up from those long appendages had put a degree of stress on his shocked heart. Now that it wasn't required to work so hard, it seemed to be coping well enough.

Sherlock lunged forward in an attempt to sit up but John pushed him back down on the couch.

'Oh, no you don't, Sonny Jim. You still look like death warmed up and your hands are cold as ice so you're staying right there until I say different.'

Sherlock had to admit that being recumbent was by far the better option for now. His head had spun alarmingly when he'd tried to sit up. But he scowled, nevertheless, just for appearance's sake.

'So,' John drawled, putting on his best bedside manner, 'what brought this on?'

Sherlock scowled still more. How could he tell John the truth? He was getting panic attacks over having to write a Best Man's speech? Well, strictly speaking, that was the case. Of course, every Best Man felt a degree of trepidation at the thought of speaking in public to a mix of close friends and complete strangers, making jokes at the Groom's expense but within the bounds of taste and decency and being generally amusing and at least moderately entertaining. It would seem ridiculous to admit the level of anxiety he felt about giving this Best Man's speech.

But for Sherlock, this speech was like a minefield, every step fraught with danger. Because every anecdote was part of a complex web of incidents and most of them did not have happy outcomes. Every memory was linked, in a direct line, to some terrible emotional trauma. This was Sherlock's problem. This was 'what brought this on'. He was about to put himself through 'talking therapy' in front of an invited audience.

He screwed up his eyes and pulled the blanket back over his head.

ooOoo

 **I promise it will get a bit lighter from here on... Many thanks for all your faves, follows and reviews! :)**


	14. Until Death - Chapter Thirteen

**Our hapless hero is not out of the woods yet...**

 **Chapter Thirteen**

John Watson pursed his lips as he pondered the uncommunicative man-child huddled under the blanket. Over the years, he had become accustomed to his best friend's penchant for stroppy teenager impressions and toddler-esque tantrums. This episode didn't seem to fit either of those categories but Sherlock wasn't giving him a lot to go on. And he was AWOL from work! He needed to get back there before he had no job to go back to.

He got up from the coffee table and beckoned Mrs Hudson to follow him out onto the landing.

'I have to go,' he advised her, in a stage whisper. 'If I don't get my sorry arse back to work I'll be claiming Job Seeker's Allowance by the end of the week.'

Mrs H's face reflected her perturbation at this news.

'Oh, John, must you?' she whimpered, concerned at being left in charge of the indisposed detective. 'What do you think is wrong with him?'

'He might have had some sort of fainting fit,' John replied. 'But I've no idea what could have caused it. He needs a proper examination.'

The old lady looked even more alarmed. John quickly devised a plan.

'Go down to the street and hail a cab,' he went on. 'I'll take him back to St Mary's with me, stick him in a spare cubicle and order up some tests so I can try to figure out what's going on. I'll call Molly and let her know...'

'Don't call Molly,' Sherlock mewled from the next room, sitting up so that the blanket fell away. As Mrs Hudson scampered down the stairs to complete her mission, John returned to the sitting room and addressed his friend, in a coaxing tone of voice.

'Look, you come back to work with me. I'll give you a bit of a once-over, see if there's anything physical going on. You can just chill for a while and when you're feeling better you can go on your way. How does that sound?'

'I don't need to go to hospital,' Sherlock grumbled, lying back down again, drawing his knees up to his chest in a protective foetal curl and pulling the blanket up to his chin.

'Well, I can't leave you here with Mrs Hudson and you don't want me to call Molly so...'

'But there's nothing wrong with me,' Sherlock insisted, in a querulous voice distinctly reminiscent of Lily Rose in a strop.

'Of course there's nothing wrong with you,' John sighed with heavy sarcasm. 'That's why you were lying unresponsive on the sofa, as white as a sheet and in a cold sweat.'

'I was playing possum, hoping you'd all get bored and go away,' the disgruntled detective grumbled.

'Sherlock…'

'Oh, alright!' he huffed, throwing off the blanket and pushing himself upright, ruffling his untidy hair with both hands.

John gave a victory nod and shepherded him out of the room and down the stairs.

The journey back to St Mary's Hospital was taken in a less than amiable silence, as Sherlock glowered out of one side window and John gazed nonchalantly from the other, ignoring his petulant friend. Sherlock's annoyance was mostly with himself. Perhaps if he had explained the situation to John, he wouldn't have insisted he came to the hospital, but he just couldn't bring himself to do that and now he was locked into this time-wasting exercise. Today was not working out at all as he had intended.

On arrival at the A and E Department, John took Sherlock in through the ambulance entrance and straight to a vacant cubicle, changing the sign to Occupied.

'Hop up on the trolley, mate, and I'll get you signed in. I'm going to order up some tests. You just lie back and relax. You'll be well taken care of.'

Sherlock rolled onto the treatment bed and turned his back on John, hunching his shoulders and folding his arms across his chest, making his feelings very clear. John merely shrugged and walked away.

Sherlock paid no attention to the nurse when she came to assault him with various pieces of medical equipment in order to record his vital signs. He was passively co-operative, removing his coat and jacket and rolling up his sleeve so that she could apply a blood pressure cuff, but failed to acknowledge her at all when she remarked that his blood pressure was a little low and his temperature was normal. The nurse then left him to his own devices, with the pulse rate monitor clipped to the middle finger of his left hand, causing the machine to beep rather annoyingly - so he filtered it out.

His primary preoccupation was still with the dilemma of delivering a Best Man's speech that didn't reduce him to a quaking mass of post-traumatic stress responses. Somewhere in his Mind Palace there must surely be some memories that didn't come with trigger warnings as standard? So it was to that sanctum sanctorum that he retreated and began his fingertip search for 'amusing family anecdotes'.

'Mr Holmes? Mr Holmes? Can you hear me, Mr Holmes?'

Sherlock blinked and focused on the concerned expression of the nurse standing next to the treatment trolley on which he was reclining. She had her hand on his upper arm so he stared at it, with a furrowed brow, until she removed it and folded her arms rather self-consciously. A moment later, John rushed into the cubicle, looking flustered.

'Are you alright?' he asked.

Sherlock glared at his friend and said, 'I would be fine if you hadn't insisted on dragging me here against my will. If you're done with all your prodding and poking, can I go home, now?'

The nurse made a valiant effort to maintain a blank expression but wasn't quite able to prevent her eyebrows from sliding up towards her hairline. John was busy checking the pulse rate monitor record of Sherlock's heart beat over the preceding thirty minutes and his eyebrows were doing something quite peculiar too.

'Your pulse is terribly erratic,' he said at last. He checked the chart the nurse had filled in earlier. 'And your blood pressure is abnormally low,' he added.

'Fine, thank you, doctor,' Sherlock retorted, acerbically. 'I'll be sure to file that under 'Pointless Information' in my 'Random Facts' index. Now, can I go about my business?'

'No, you can't,' John replied. 'I would be remiss in my observance of the Hippocratic Oath if I were to discharge you without having these readings checked by a specialist. I'm going to refer you to a Cardiologist. You're not going anywhere soon.'

It was another half hour before the Cardiologist arrived on the scene. She checked Sherlock's chart and readings, too, and asked for his blood pressure to be taken again, which produced the same low reading.

She asked him some searching questions about his general health and life style – most of which were answered in a perfunctory manner by the patient and fleshed out by John Watson, who insisted on being present for the interview-stroke-examination. Having gathered sufficient evidence to make a judgement call, the registrar ordered up a battery of blood tests and then turned to the morose detective and said,

'Well, based on your recent symptoms – dizziness and fainting, low blood pressure and irregular heart rate – there are a number of conditions you may be suffering from but my best guess would be second-degree Mobitz Type 2 heart block.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes in an effort to appear as disinterested as possible.

'You have quite a complex medical history, Mr Holmes,' the cardiologist continued, undeterred. 'I see that you contracted Lyme disease a couple of years ago. A bacterial infection of that nature can cause heart muscle damage which could produce these types of symptoms. A short time after that, you suffered a cardiac arrest after being injected with snake venom.'

The doctor's face betrayed her private glee at being presented with such a fascinating subject to study.

'And, based on your rather unusual attitude to food consumption…' John had provided the information that Sherlock tended not to eat when he was on a case '…low levels of potassium and magnesium in your blood could also be a strong possibility so I've ordered tests for both hypokalaemia and hypomagnesemia.'

The nurse, hovering in the background, had assembled a tray of paraphernalia for the express purpose of taking Sherlock's blood. He eyed her suspiciously, while the registrar continued her pronouncements.

'I'm also going to fit you with a Holter monitor to record your electro-cardiac activity for the next forty-eight hours. That will give us a clearer idea of how your heart performs during normal activity as opposed to resting, as it is now.'

Sherlock's expression gradually morphed into one of acute alarm. This was all beginning to sound rather serious. He glanced across at John, scrutinizing his friend's demeanour for signs that this might be an elaborate practical joke. He wouldn't put it past the ex-army doctor to perpetrate such a hoax as an act of revenge for some perceived slight. But John was looking genuinely concerned; the cardiologist and the nurse didn't look terribly amused, either.

'So, we'll make an appointment for you to come back in two days, Mr Holmes,' the registrar continued, 'and, depending on what we find, I might schedule an ultrasound to take a look at your heart muscles in action. But in the meantime, I must advise you to cut caffeine out of your diet completely…'

'What?!' Sherlock exclaimed in horror.

'And no smoking,' she added.

'And no nicotine patches, either,' John chipped in.

'But that's ridiculous…!' squawked the consulting detective, more animated now than at any time since entering the hospital cubicle, over an hour ago.

'Absolutely not, Mr Holmes,' insisted the doctor. 'No stimulants of any kind – but, most especially, no caffeine or nicotine.'

Sherlock sank back against the head rest of the treatment couch, in a disconsolate funk.

ooOoo

 **Well, he wasn't expecting that, was he!**


	15. Until Death - Chapter Fourteen

**This chapter contains a brief description of an incident of child cruelty.**

 **It also contains some homophobic and racist comments. These are the views of the character. They are not my views. :)**

 **Chapter Fourteen**

It took barely ten minutes to fit the Holter monitor, once the technician had been summoned from the Cardiology Department. He attached three sticky pad electrodes to Sherlock's chest and then affixed wires from the electrodes to the monitor, which was the size and shape of a smart phone.

'Where would you like the monitor?' the technician asked.

'Back in your department would be my first choice,' Sherlock replied, curtly.

'That's not one of the options,' the technician replied, with a wry smile. 'In your pocket or clipped to your belt?' he added.

'I'll keep it in my pocket,' Sherlock huffed.

Completely unfazed by Sherlock's manner, the man handed him the small machine and he slipped it into the back pocket of his trousers, as the technician explained the rules.

'You must wear it – day and night – for the whole of the forty eight hours. You mustn't get it wet, so no bathing, showering or swimming while you're wearing it. The test is completely painless but you must maintain normal physical activities while you're wearing the monitor.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the idea of 'normal physical activities'. That could cover a multitude of sins, in his experience.

The tech handed Sherlock a thin A5 sized booklet.

'If you experience any heart palpitations or arrhythmia of any kind during the test period, please make a note in this diary, describing what you were doing when the palpitations occurred.'

Sherlock glared at the diary, disdainfully, then looked back at the technician to see if he had anything more to say.

'At the end of the test period,' the man continued, 'you can remove the electrodes from your chest. You don't need to switch off the monitor. It will shut down automatically after a few minutes of non-activity.'

The technician stopped and stared pointedly at Sherlock, waiting for an indication that he had taken on board all the instructions. After a few moments of resistance, Sherlock grunted.

'Take this to Reception…' the man gave him a slip of paper with a few lines of type printed on it, '…and they will give you an appointment for Monday morning at the Cardiology Out Patients clinic, to return the monitor. They'll download the gathered information and analyse it. You should receive your results within seven days, through your GP.'

'How long will the appointment take?' Sherlock asked. He wasn't thrilled at the idea of having to hang around in Out Patients all morning, waiting to be seen.

'I really couldn't say,' the man replied. 'If you'd rather, I can give you a pre-paid envelope to return the monitor in the post but the staff prefer it to be returned in person, in case another patient is waiting it.'

'That's alright, he'll bring it back in person,' came a voice from the curtained entrance to the cubicle.

Sherlock closed his eyes in exasperation.

'I told John not to call you,' he groaned.

Molly sidled into the small cubicle and up to the treatment trolley on which Sherlock was sitting, while the technician fitted the monitor and gave him the spiel. She put her hand on his wrist and smiled at the other man.

'I'll make sure he follows all procedures,' she assured the tech guy, who smiled back and took his leave.

'And why did you tell John not to tell me you were here?' she asked, sternly.

Sherlock's shoulders slumped.

'Because I didn't want to worry you,' he mumbled, giving a fair impression of an errant school boy caught red-handed in the act of carrying out some reckless misdemeanour.

Molly brushed her fingertips across his brow, in an unconscious bid to smooth away the stress wrinkles, then stroked his cheek, gently.

'I was going to find out, sooner or later,' she pointed out. 'Or were you planning to take it off the minute you got out of here?'

Sherlock had the good grace to look guilty.

'Oh, Sherlock! You are incorrigible!' Molly cried with exasperation. 'This could be serious! You can't just pretend it hasn't happened. Honestly…Men and their health! You are so bloody irresponsible!'

Her harsh words were softened by the tender kiss she pressed to the corner of his mouth. She wrapped her arms around his waist and he reciprocated, wrapping his arms around her and resting his head on her shoulder. This was what he'd needed all day, if truth were told, a comforting hug from the one person he knew he could rely on to give him unconditional support whenever he was in need of it.

Sherlock was always at his most obnoxious when he felt vulnerable and his morning meeting with Mycroft had left him feeling very exposed. But Molly's presence alone had a calming effect on him. He really should have let John call her hours ago – or even called her himself – but his stubborn streak had taken control. Would he ever learn? He turned his head to burrow deeper into the crook of her neck and it was upon this scene that the nurse walked in, bringing Sherlock's A and E discharge letter.

Seeing the person she had come to think of as 'that arrogant prick in Cubicle 3' being cuddled so lovingly, by this diminutive lady in a colourful cardigan, came as something of a surprise but the nurse quickly regained her composure, reminding herself that anxiety manifested itself in different ways in different people. She gave a discreet cough. Molly and Sherlock released one another and moved apart. Molly turned to the new arrival and held out her hand for the letter, smiling gratefully.

'Thank you, Nurse…Tyler,' Molly said, reading the lady's ID lanyard, 'for taking such good care of my husband.'

'Yes, thank you,' Sherlock mumbled, avoiding the nurse's gaze, 'I'm most grateful.'

'No worries,' replied Nurse Tyler, trying very hard not to giggle. Mr Snotty was Mr Softy now.

Molly helped Sherlock on with his jacket and coat, took charge of the Activity Diary and led the way, out of the cubicle. John was nowhere to be seen – presumably busy with another patient or perhaps hiding from Sherlock's wrath, after ringing Molly against express orders – so they made their way to Reception and booked the return appointment for Monday morning then exited A and E, out into the dull, dank, drizzly day in search of a cab home.

ooOoo

Caro was enjoying her stay at Colbert House more than she could have hoped. Mycroft's household were so welcoming, tending to hers and Henrique's every need, especially during the day, when Mycroft was at work and Arthur at university. They wanted for nothing. And the children were a delight, each in their own way.

Charlie was such a gentle soul. His positive approach to life was infectious and brought smiles to the faces of everyone around him. He was completely in awe of his sister, who was obviously the dominant partner in the relationship, but there was a deep and abiding love between the siblings, manifested in frequent hugs and casual hand-holding, whenever they were near one another. Caro recognised strong similarities to her old friend in Katy. The little girl's vivacious personality, strong opinions, deep passions and sharp intelligence were all Violet.

But there was something not right with Katy and Caro suspected it had something to do with this child, Stevie Needham, in the twins' class at the village school. The brief conversation between Arthur and Katy and the look shared by him and Mycroft, the night she and Henrique arrived from Brazil, had aroused her suspicions.

She had intended to ask Mycroft about it but the opportunity had not, so far, arisen. She was loath to raise the subject with Katy herself and it seemed inappropriate to discuss the matter with the nannies who, although deeply embedded within the family, were nonetheless staff and Caro, due to her upbringing, was governed by the protocols defining such relationships.

But she didn't have to wait long to experience first-hand a taste of Katy's problem.

A temporary let up in the drizzly weather presented Caro and Henrique with an opportunity to get out of doors and enjoy the English countryside, one of the few things about her motherland that Caro really missed when she was at home in Brazil. After an early lunch, the elderly couple set out to walk into the village, taking the children to their Nursery class.

They stuck to the roads because the fields were so water-logged. It was a little over a mile, by road, from the end of the drive to the village school but they left in plenty of time and Katy and Charlie were accustomed to walking. There was a lot of standing water, stretching along the edges of the country lanes - huge puddles, some of which were several inches deep - but everyone was dressed appropriately in waterproof coats and wellingtons and it was such a delight to be out in the fresh, cool air.

Charlie chattered away as they walked, pointing out anything and everything that caught his eye along the way. Katy, Caro noticed, became increasingly taciturn the closer they came to their destination.

As they turned down School Lane, the narrow cul-de-sac that led to the church hall and the village school, a car approached them from behind. There were no pavements along this road, a common state of affairs in rural areas and small villages, so Caro, Henrique and the children tucked close into the curb side, to allow the vehicle to pass. But they could tell from the engine noise that, rather than slowing down, the car was speeding up, as it came closer.

Henrique stopped and turned his head to glare at the approaching vehicle, gathering Caro and the children into the arc of his arms, to shield them from the imminent danger. He could just make out the driver's grinning face, through the windscreen, as the car bore down on them and shot passed, drenching them with spray from the road side puddles. And they could all hear, very clearly, the loud whoops and cheers of triumph from inside the vehicle.

Henrique, contrary to his character, swore vehemently in Portuguese then apologised profusely to his wife and the children – although the youngsters didn't actually understand what he had said. They were more concerned about the fact that they were soaked to the skin, in spite of their sensible precautions. Charlie was typically more delighted than concerned at this sudden and unexpected development but Katy was deeply distressed. She stood in the road, arms outstretched, eyes tight closed, her hair plastered to her head, water dripping from her coat, screaming at the top of her voice.

Caro picked up the hysterical child and handed her straight to her husband, telling Charlie to stay with Uncle Henrique, then she marched off down the lane in pursuit of the retreating car, which turned off into the Village Hall car park. By the time Caro reached the car park entrance, the vehicle occupants – a surly-looking man and a fair-headed boy of about the twins' vintage – had climbed out of the vehicle and were walking towards her, heading for the school gate.

'You, sir!' called Caro, pointing an accusatory finger in the man's direction.

The man stopped in front of her and looked down his nose, with a disparaging leer.

'You talking to me?' he sneered.

'I most certainly am,' Caro replied, drawing herself up to her full height of five feet three inches, quivering with barely contained rage. 'You just deliberately drove at speed through that enormous puddle with the express intention of drenching me, my husband and our god-children! What do you have to say for yourself?'

The man barked a laugh.

'God children?' he howled. 'There's nothing godly about those brats or them two bloody perverts they live with.'

Caro was so deeply shocked by this blatantly homophobic slur she was rendered speechless and simply stared, open-mouthed, at the offensive man. He made to push past her and continue on his way, the child trailing behind, staring wide-eyed at the small woman who had dared to talk back to his dad. Nobody talked back to his dad! But Caro regained her faculties quickly and was not about to let him get off so lightly. She reached out and caught him by the sleeve.

'Please do not walk away while I'm speaking to you,' she said, sharply.

The man was so astonished at the nerve of this woman, he stopped and turned back to face her, squaring his shoulders and leaning in, threateningly.

'And who the 'ell d'ya think you are, tellin' me what not to do?' he snorted.

By this time, Henrique had made it to the edge of the car park and he called out to his wife in Portuguese,

'Caro-mia, be careful. This man has no respect for your womanhood.'

This drew the attention of the odious man away from Caro and towards the new arrival, which was Henrique's intention.

'Well, what 'ave we here?' the man exclaimed, grinning with undisguised derision. ' _You in Hingerland, now, mate. You need speakka da lingo,_ ' he mocked, in pidgin English. 'Bloody dagos, Stevie,' he muttered to his son, 'comin' over 'ere, stealin' our jobs, takin' our women.'

He curled his lip at Caro but she was looking at the child, thinking this must be the infamous Stevie Needham and that creature must be his father.

'Senhor,' replied Henrique, calmly, 'I assure you, I both speak and understand English very well and I am retired so I have no interest in your job. As for your women, I am perfectly happy with the one I have, thank you so much.'

'Don't get smart with me, Jose bloody Mourinho,' Mr Needham snapped back, surprising Henrique by actually choosing a Portuguese name, though he did pronounce it in the Spanish style.

'I fear that getting smart with you would be an exercise in futility,' Henrique replied, smoothly. 'However, I must take you to task over your style of driving which was quite inappropriate for the road conditions and showed no consideration for the safety of other road users. It is fortunate that you only sprayed us with water. Your recklessness could have caused a serious accident.'

Mr Needham glowered at Henrique, suspicious that he had just been insulted but wary of challenging this foreign man with his self-confident manner.

'On this occasion, a simple apology will be acceptable,' Henrique went on.

Mr Needham snorted with disgust. When did he ever apologise to anyone?

'Dad, I'm going to be late for school,' Stevie whined, tugging at his father's sleeve. The man reacted, irritably, wrenching his sleeve out of the child's hand and giving him a sharp clip on the ear.

'Get your arse over there then, you little shit!' he snapped.

Stevie jumped back in shock, rubbing the side of his head and looking about to burst into tears but he didn't hang around to be slapped again. He turned and scuttled across the road, disappearing through the school gate.

Caro and Henrique were outraged at the man's rough treatment of his child. They were both aware that street children in Brazil were often treated very badly but not usually by their own parents. They glared at the man as he turned, with a snide grin and swaggered off to his car without giving them even a perfunctory apology.

'Disgusting man,' Caro hissed under her breath but turned her attention to Charlie and Katy, who were also in danger of being late for school. Katy had calmed down considerably but was still soaking wet, as was Charlie. Caro toyed with the idea of suggesting they take the children back home but Charlie, seeming to anticipate this, piped up,

'We got spare clothes at school, Auntie Cawo. We can get changed when we get there.'

'Are you happy to do this, Katy?' Henrique asked the child still cradled in his arms. Katy nodded, frowning but reassured that she would be out of her wet clothes very soon. The party moved off across the road and entered the school yard through the small metal gate. Caro would explain to the teacher what had just transpired and ask her to keep a close eye on Katy for any adverse reactions to the incident. She would say nothing of Mr Needham's hateful comments. That information would be for Mycroft and Arthur's ears only. Meanwhile, Mr Needham drove out of the car park and sped away down the lane.

ooOoo

 **So, Mr Needham has shown his true colours at last. But what will Mycroft do about it, I wonder?**

 **Thank you all for your faves, follows and reviews. :)**


	16. Until Death - Chapter Fifteen

**A shortish update but, hopefully, an entertaining one. :)**

 **A very brief moment of flirtation...if you blink, you'll miss it. (So don't blink!)**

 **Chapter Fifteeni**

'It's a tricky situation,' said Mycroft, pursing his lips, thoughtfully.

He, Arthur, Caro and Henrique were sitting in The Snug, enjoying a post-prandial brandy, the children fast asleep in their beds.

'The fact that the man is my tenant and also my employee - when he can be bothered to turn out, that is – makes it more complicated rather than less. If I were to sack or evict him, he could cry 'foul' and claim all kinds of compensation. As a landlord, I have to prove he's a bad tenant to evict him. I couldn't just kick him out on the grounds that he thinks I'm a pervert. And as my employee, well, he's an itinerant worker so I can't really sack him either.'

Caro shook her head in frustration.

'It seems quite appalling to me that you can't just get rid of the odious little man!' she spat, more venomously than either Mycroft or Arthur had ever heard her speak before.

'Well, just 'getting rid of him' is probably well within my powers,' replied Mycroft, with a Machiavellian smile, 'but perhaps we shouldn't consider that option until we've exhausted all others.' He wasn't quite ruling it out, though.

'There are laws against inciting hatred,' Arthur pointed out. 'His comments – especially in front of his son, who is young and impressionable - must surely fall into that category.'

'And deliberately driving through the puddle and soaking us, couldn't that be construed as Common Assault?' Caro exclaimed, turning to her husband, the lawyer.

'I am no expert in UK law but it probably could,' Henrique replied, 'but it would not be sufficient grounds on which to evict him. It would incur a hefty fine, at most, but, more likely, Community Service or something of that nature.'

'But his treatment of his own child is something we can act upon,' Arthur interjected. 'Correct me if I'm wrong but smacking is illegal in the UK, isn't it?'

'Sadly not,' Mycroft replied. 'It is certainly frowned upon but if the injury caused is considered trivial or trifling, that is also classed as Common Assault. The physical injury inflicted upon the child must be serious and lasting for the charge to be made up to Actual Bodily Harm.'

'But what about the psychological damage,' both Caro and Arthur said, in unison, and then laughed at the fact.

'Again, that would be something for the Prosecution to prove, were it ever to come to court,' Mycroft replied. 'However,' he added, seeing the frustration and anger in the faces of everyone in the room, 'we can't let the incident go unreported. I doubt very much this is the first time the man has smacked his son or spoken to him in such a disparaging manner. I suspect the family are well known to Social Services and the school might well be monitoring the children for signs of neglect, cruelty or abuse. So our first course of action will be a visit to St Mary's Primary to take our concerns to the Head Teacher.'

'We could do that tomorrow,' said Caro, including her husband in the 'we'.

'In deed we could,' he agreed and smiled at his wife. One of the many things he loved about her was that, diminutive though she may be in physical size, she had enormous moral courage and would never stand by and watch injustice being done. She would always challenge it, where ever and whenever it occurred.

With a plan of action formulated, the conversation could turn to more pleasant subjects and the hot topic of the moment was the imminent wedding, only a week and a half away. Mycroft mentioned that Sherlock had visited him that morning to have his Best Man's speech vetted and how he had given him carte blanche to write a more personalised version - prompting all eyebrows to rise.

He did not share, however, the most remarkable feature of the visit – Sherlock's revelation about his nightmare phase and his heartfelt thanks for his brother's care and support. He would probably tell Arthur, later, when they were alone but it was too private and personal to share with friends, even ones as close and dear as the de Sousas.

So they talked about menus and flowers, cake design and wine lists, guest accommodation and transport, table decorations and wedding favours and all the other trivia associated with a wedding.

It was impossible not to notice how happy Mycroft was – happier than Caro had ever seen him, even when Charlie and Katy arrived on the scene. The way he looked at Arthur, especially when he thought no one was watching, left no doubt in her mind that he had found the love of his life. His entire body seemed to ease and relax, the hard angles of his face became rounded and softened and his eyes – capable of such ice-cold and steel-hard intensity - would twinkle and melt with warmth. It warmed her heart to see it.

 _Violet would have been so proud_ , she thought for the umpteenth time.

ooOoo

'Do come to bed, darling,' Molly coaxed, stroking Sherlock's arm from elbow to wrist and then plaiting their fingers together to give him a gently tug.

He was lying on the sofa in the sitting room, where he had been for the entire evening since the children went to bed, sullen and silent and heaving great sighs of frustration at frequent and regular intervals.

He had been particularly irritated by the discovery of his secret stash of nicotine patches. He had thought that, by sticking them inside that innocuous-looking corn flour box, at the front of the middle shelf in the 'baking cupboard', they would be safely hidden, in plain sight.

But when John relayed the doctor's instructions about abstaining from all stimulants during the test period, Molly had called ahead and instructed Marie to empty all the cupboards of coffee, tea and hot chocolate and conduct a thorough search of the most unlikely places for cigarettes or nicotine patches to be concealed. She had given the same instructions to Mrs Hudson – and asked her to let Mr Chatterjee, the proprietor of Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Café adjacent to 221 Baker Street, know that Sherlock was not, under any circumstances, to be served beverages containing caffeine for the next two days.

Mrs Hudson had taken her mission one step further and advised the manager of the local convenience store, another few doors down, not to sell Sherlock cigarettes, tobacco - or any vaping products, either.

Between them, they had effectively cut off all Sherlock's supplies in the immediate vicinity of home and work.

Of course, there was nothing to stop him going further afield to purchase contraband but Molly was hoping that the general lethargy and malaise, that had overtaken him as a result of being denied easy access to stimulants, would be enough to keep him clean. It was, after all, only for two days.

'Come on, Mr Grumpy,' Molly cajoled, kneeling on the floor beside the sofa and smoothing his shirt front with her hand, feeling the sticky patch electrodes and wires under the fabric. 'I can make it worth your while,' she breathed, her voice low and husky.

Sherlock opened his eyes and gave her a hard stare.

'Do you really think I'm going to do _that_ while I'm wearing a wire?' he huffed, indignantly.

'Well, they said you had to continue with normal physical activities,' Molly reminded him, wiggling her eyebrows and pouting rather suggestively.

'But they'll know what we've been doing!' Sherlock exclaimed.

'So what?' Molly giggled. 'We're married. It's perfectly legal! And we've got three children, for god's sake. Where did they come from, the cabbage patch?'

Sherlock wasn't impressed with that argument.

' _Normal_ physical activity, the doctor said. We did it last night, if I remember rightly, and when do we ever do it two nights in a row, these days?'

Molly was finding it very hard to keep a straight face but she persevered, sliding her hand across to his left pectoral and gently circling his nipple with her fingertips, through his shirt.

'Stop doing that,' Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes again and clenching his jaw, irritably, and Molly did stop – but only so that she could slide her hand back to the middle of his chest and undo three shirt buttons so that she could slip her hand inside the front panel and continue her assault on one of his most sensitive erogenous zones, skin to skin.

Sherlock bore this for as long as he could, all too aware of the effect that her ministrations were having on another part of his anatomy but loath to give her any satisfaction by acknowledging that fact. But Molly had eyes to see and she gave a tiny smile of glee then began to unfasten more shirt buttons, moving in a southerly direction. She got as far as his navel - within striking distance of his trouser waistband fastening - before his resolve broke and he grabbed her wandering hand, holding her wrist tight.

'I said _don't_ ,' he growled, glaring at her 'and. in case it has slipped your mind, we've always agreed that 'no' means 'no'!'

Molly had to admit that was the case. And she could hardly argue that what was sauce for the goose was not sauce for the gander. She nodded, contritely, and he – very cautiously – released his grip on her wrist and began to button up his shirt, still giving her a glare of annoyance.

'Alright,' she conceded, 'I won't try to seduce you. You're clearly not in the mood. But please will you come to bed? I don't want to find you lying on this sofa when I get up in the morning and, if I leave you here, I have a strong suspicion that is exactly what will happen.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes up into the top of his head and gave a very extravagant sigh but then snapped,

'Alright, you win, I'll come to bed. But no funny business or I'm sleeping in the guest room.'

'Scout's honour,' Molly agreed, holding up two fingers in a boy scout salute.

So, very grudgingly, Sherlock rolled off the sofa onto his feet and trudged disconsolately upstairs to bed, leaving Molly to lock up and turn off all the lights. By the time she got upstairs, he was already in bed, as far over to his side as he could get without falling out, hunched up with his back to her side. Molly went in the bathroom to carry out her bedtime beauty regime and change into her nightie then tiptoed across the bedroom, climbed into bed and turned out the bedside lamp.

'Good night, sweetie,' she murmured.

Sherlock barely grunted - and nothing more.

ooOoo

Oh, dear. Someone is not a very happy bunny... Thank you all for your continued support for my story. If I haven't replied to your reviews yet, I will do very shortly. :)


	17. Until Death - Chapter Sixteen

**Fluff alert! Hope you like! :)**

 **Chapter Sixteen**

The night proved less than restful for Sherlock. Sleep evaded him, despite his virtually caffeine-free day, and he had a splitting headache behind his eyes, courtesy of the same abstinence. Molly kept to her promise of 'no funny business' but Sherlock finished up in the guest bedroom anyway, out of a sense of guilt that his restless tossing and turning was disturbing his wife's sleep.

But, the next morning, when Molly came down to breakfast, Sherlock was in his usual place at the kitchen table, watching over Violet as she applied herself to breakfast. He looked pale and drawn, with dark shadows under his eyes, and clear signs of tension in his jaw and brow but Molly could see that he was valiantly trying to conceal his inner cravings from his daughter and maintain his normal, loving 'dad' demeanour. Molly squeezed his shoulder as she passed en route to make herself some toast.

William and Freddie came into the kitchen, scrubbed and groomed and dressed in their school uniforms, followed by Nanny Marie who left William to help himself to cereal and milk while she served Freddie with a bowl of porridge and sat beside him, making sure as much breakfast as possible went into his mouth and a lesser amount down his front.

The boys were deep in conversation – something about a new video game that superimposed digital images on the real world through smart phones and invited the players to 'capture' the various characters. It was due to be launched later in the year but excitement was already at fever-pitch amongst the gaming fraternity, of which William was a member.

Freddie was finding it hard to understand how the digital characters could be 'in the real world' but invisible except through a phone.

'Are dey dhosts?' he asked.

'No, Freddie, they're not ghosts. They're digital images superimposed on Google maps,' William explained.

'So dey is not weal?' Freddie conjectured.

'No, they're not real.' William assured him.

'So how tan you tatch dem?' asked Freddie, still a bit confused by the concept of virtual reality. William was reaching the limits of his ability to explain in terms his younger brother could understand. Normally, Sherlock would step in and save the day with an explanation that would satisfy both boys but, today, he seemed distracted, not really tuned into the world around him.

Fortunately, Molly was on the case.

'It's magic, Freddie,' she said, winking at William, who's furrowed brow showed that he was not impressed with this idea. But he shrugged his shoulders and let it pass. He could see that Freddie was more than satisfied with this solution to the problem.

'Ah, mag-ic! Dat eck-shpyains it,' he nodded and tucked into his porridge.

William looked across at his father and his brow furrowed still deeper. There was something not right about Daddy's body language. His posture was all hunched over, as though he was in pain, and his facial expression was tight and pinched. Molly noticed the direction of her eldest son's gaze and tried to catch his eye to give him a reassuring smile but something happened that took them all by surprise.

'Dad-dee!' said Violet, more clearly than Molly had ever heard her say anything before. She gasped then burst out laughing. Marie and the boys joined in, not least because of the effect Violet's pronouncement had on her father. Sherlock seemed to snap to attention, and looked at his daughter with a delighted smile. Violet's attempts to move beyond repetitive babble sounds had been notable, recently, but this was officially Violet's first word. And they had all been there to witness it.

'See, I told you she likes you best,' Molly chided her husband, playfully.

Sherlock gave a sheepish grin and reached out to stroke Violet's head, which fitted neatly into the palm of his hand.

The rest of breakfast passed off without incident but that little milestone moment did much to raise Sherlock's spirits and took his mind, if only temporarily, off the double dose of withdrawal symptoms he was currently enduring. And the smile on his face was sufficient to reassure William that Daddy was OK.

Breakfast over, William and Freddie went to brush their teeth, wash their hands and faces and put on their outdoor clothes then they came back into the kitchen to say goodbye to Daddy and Violet.

'Have a lovely day,' Sherlock told both of them, with a group hug.

'You, too, Daddy,' they both replied.

'Bye-bye, Ada,' said Freddie to his sister. 'You be a dood dirl for Mawee,' he added.

William looked at his sister, her face and hands rather sticky with the remains of her morning repast and his nose wrinkled with distaste.

'Bye, Violet,' he said, quickly, and hurried out of the room.

Molly, also dressed in outdoor clothes, passed him on the way in and stooped to give Sherlock a peck on the lips.

'No cheating,' she whispered. 'You know it's for your own good.'

He beetled his brow but didn't contradict.

They kissed goodbye and Molly was gone, out of the room, out of the house, off to take the boys to school and then to work. Sherlock glowered at Violet and said,

'Alright, young lady, quickly, tell me! Where's your secret supply?'

Violet giggled and replied,

'Dee-lum dalla dimda.'

Sherlock tickled her under the chin and sighed,

'If only I could speak 'baby'…'

'Shall I take over from here?' asked Marie, returning to the kitchen after seeing Molly and the boys out of the front door.

'She's finished her breakfast,' Sherlock replied, waving a hand at the empty bowl sitting amid the sticky mess that was the remains of Violet's morning meal.

'I'll take her up for her bath, then,' said the nanny.

 _And I'll go back to bed_ , thought Sherlock. He felt like death warmed over, as though he had a bad case of flu, though he knew that wasn't the cause.

He plucked his daughter out of her high chair and handed her over to Marie then began to clear away the breakfast things. He would tidy the kitchen and load the dishwasher before crashing. He needed a distraction but there was no way he could work. His brain felt like mush.

He leaned on his hands on the counter top, closed his eyes against the dull pain in his head and cursed his own weakness. How did it come to this, that he could be so dependent on external factors to access his unparalleled gift for deductive reasoning? Through the fortunate happenstance of human genetics, he had been gifted this remarkable brain but he had worked hard, made enormous sacrifices, to develop it into the precision instrument it had become. So how could a man of his supreme intellect be brought low by the mere absence of vegetable matter - a leaf and a bean? Would his pride allow this?

'No!' he growled.

'Sorry?' Marie called from the kitchen doorway.

'No,' Sherlock repeated, turning to look at the nanny and little Violet, who fixed him with a quizzical look. 'No, I'll take Violet for her bath. We're going out,' he announced.

Marie looked mildly concerned. Molly had made it abundantly clear from the very beginning that she would not be happy if her husband took any of the children to a crime scene.

Sherlock strode towards the nanny and lifted a delighted baby from her arms.

'Would you like to see some fishes, Violet?' he asked, in a sing-song voice.

Marie relaxed. No need for concern, after all. Sherlock was taking his daughter to one of his favourite haunts - the London Aquarium.

ooOoo

Mycroft arrived in his office to be greeted by a pile of papers, all marked 'Urgent' – and these were just the ones that Anthea had weeded out from an even bigger pile, the rest having been distributed to various members of the department staff, each according to his or her own speciality.

He sat down at his desk and picked up the secure land line telephone, thanking his PA with a smile as she placed a cup of his favourite tea on the desk in front of him. He dialled a four digit internal number and heard the line ring three times before it was answered by a familiar voice.

'Ah, good morning,' said Mycroft, 'I have a little job for you. Get me everything you can on a man called Bryan Needham of Colbert St Mary in Hertfordshire.'

He paused, as the person on the other end of the line said something, then replied,

'Yes, he's one of my tenants but he's rather overstayed his welcome so I'd like you to dig around, see what you can find.'

Another pause while he listened then,

'Everything you can think of…phone records, internet history, social media – though the word 'social' is something of an oxymoron in his case – bank records, any clubs or organisations he might belong to…'

Pause.

'No, not those sorts of clubs!' Mycroft snorted. 'Pigeon fanciers, hare coursing, that sort of thing. And any political affiliations he may have. Who did he vote for in the last election? Use your own judgement but if you see anything that may be of interest, follow it through.'

Pause again.

'As soon as possible, please. Preferably by the end of the day but…well, I'll leave it in your capable hands.'

Mycroft hung up the phone and picked up his tea cup, sipping the golden liquid thoughtfully. If MI5 couldn't find anything to pin on this nuisance, Needham, no one could.

ooOoo

Caro wasted no time, that morning, ringing the local village school and asking for an appointment with the head teacher, Miss Duffield.

'I'm a guest of Mr Holmes, at Colbert House, but I don't wish to talk about Katy or Charlie. I'm concerned about another of your pupils because of something I witnessed yesterday, outside the school,' she explained to the school administrator, after she expressed concern about arranging an appointment if Caro's intention was to talk about the Holmes children.

Assured that this was not the case, an appointment was made for quarter past one that very afternoon, which would fit in well with taking the twins to school, again.

The persistent drizzle had returned.

'If one didn't know better, one would think it was St Swithin's Day!' Caro exclaimed, as she, Henrique and the children piled into the Estate Manager's 4x4, to be chauffeured to the village.

'Who's St Swivin, Auntie Cawo?' asked Charlie, never ashamed to show his ignorance – unlike his sister, who hated to admit she didn't know something, as did her Uncle Sherlock, to whom she bore a striking resemblance in many ways.

'St Swithin, Charlie, was the Bishop of Winchester in the Ninth Century,' Caro explained, as the vehicle drew away from the house and progressed down the drive, 'and the patron saint of Winchester Cathedral. He's most famous for a lot of miracles that happened after he died, which many people insisted were down to him, so he was made a saint – or beatified, as it's called.'

'So why do you fink it's his day?' Charlie enquired.

'Well, there's a legend that whatever kind of weather we have on his Saint's Day, it will stay the same for forty days. So, if it's sunny on July 15th – which is his actual Day – it will be sunny for forty days. But if it rains on his day, it will rain for forty days,' Caro concluded.

'So because it's been raining for a long time,' Katy piped up, now she had the gist of the story, 'Auntie Caro thought it might be because of St Swithin.'

'Oh!' exclaimed Charlie, duly impressed by Katy's superior knowledge. 'But it isn't St Swivin's Day weally, is it?' he asked his sister.

'Noooo,' she replied, with an epic eye roll, 'it's Feb-ru-rary not July!'

Charlie looked suitably censured by his sister's ridicule, for a moment or two, but was soon distracted by something he spotted through the car window and forgot all about St Swithin. And, in no time at all, the car turned into School Lane and pulled up in the car park. The passengers piled out and hurried across the road to the school, eager to spend as little time as possible exposed to the drizzling rain.

After depositing the children in their classroom, Caro and Henrique were directed to the front foyer where they found the School Administrator, who showed them into the Head Teacher's office.

Miss Duffield greeted them warmly and offered a beverage, which both Caro and Henrique politely declined, since they had recently eaten lunch and they didn't wish to take up any more of the Head's precious time than was absolutely necessary.

Caro was struck by how young Miss Duffield seemed, to be holding a position of such responsibility, but she had to remind herself that, these days, everyone in authority seemed young – doctors, lawyers, policemen and, yes, even teachers. She banished these random thoughts and got down to business, describing the incident involving Mr Needham and his young son.

The Head Teacher listened patiently, her expression reflecting appropriate degrees of concern and disapproval. When the tale was told, she spoke with due caution.

'Obviously, I'm not able to discuss with you anything to do with this family but I do appreciate you bringing this incident to my attention and I assure you that I will take appropriate action.'

At this point, Caro had the distinct impression that she and Henrique were about to be dismissed. Taking a deep breath, she pre-empted this, saying,

'This man's treatment of his own child is not our only concern, Miss Duffield. The reason why I confronted Mr Needham yesterday is because he deliberately drove at speed through a large puddle and drenched me, my husband, Katy and Charlie. The children's teacher will attest to the fact that the twins arrived at school, yesterday, absolutely soaked to the skin. I believe that this was a deliberate and malicious attack on the children inspired by this man's homophobic views.'

Miss Duffield looked uncomfortable. It had been made clear that she could not discuss the Holmes children with this couple without their father's permission. This was pushing at the boundaries of pupil confidentiality. She opened her mouth to speak but Caro, accustomed to holding the floor in all manner of high-pressure situations, was too quick for her.

'This incident is only the latest in a number of incidents that have occurred in the school, involving Katy and the Needham child. It would appear that the father's bigoted views are being imparted to his children and then acted upon by them.'

'Pardon me, Mrs da Sousa. I am aware of these incidents you refer to.' Miss Duffield replied, in her best Head Teacher manner. 'And we are monitoring the situation, I can assure you…'

'Monitoring the situation is commendable, Miss Duffield, but what are you doing to ameliorate it?'

Miss Duffield's expression hardened but Caro was not to be deterred.

'What is your school's policy on diversity and tolerance, Miss Duffield? What does your school do to tackle bigotry and prejudice? Once these things rear their ugly heads, they generally don't resolve themselves without proactive intervention…'

Henrique placed a cautioning hand on his wife's wrist to draw her back from the brink of an impassioned campaign speech on the perils of non-interventionism. He'd seen her pin an entire convention hall full of delegates to the wall and he needed to spare this hapless village school head teacher the full-on Caro experience.

'What my wife means to say, Miss Duffield,' he said in a calm, polite and reasoning voice, 'is that perhaps the school could ease the situation by actively promoting knowledge and understanding of diverse life styles. After all, the traditional nuclear family of mother, father and two point four children is no longer the norm.'

'We do address these matters, in our PHSE and Citizenship syllabus,' Miss Duffield declared, a little indignantly. 'The children study this from Reception onwards!'

'Does that include the Nursery group?' Henrique asked.

'No, it is not our policy to begin the syllabus with the part-time children but, from next September, these children will all be full-time attendees and will therefore be included,' she replied.

'Well, Miss Duffield, I don't presume to tell you how to do your job – far from it - but could I suggest that, in this instance, waiting another eight months might be a grave error? I don't think either Stevie or Katy can afford to wait that long,' Henrique said, sagely.

Miss Duffield was rather put out by the direction this interview had taken. She believed that the recent clashes between Katy Holmes and Stevie Needham were nothing more than a spot of friction between two very different personalities. The idea that something as toxic as homophobia could be present in her school was quite untenable and, frankly, she thought this elderly couple – the twins' surrogate grandparents - were over-reacting. Surely, if Mr Holmes suspected that his children were being bullied because of his own sexuality he would have spoken to her about it himself? It was time, she decided, to invoke the Spectre of Pupil Confidentiality.

'If Mr Holmes is concerned about his children's school experience, he really should bring these concerns to me himself. I'm sorry but I can't discuss this with you without his written consent.'

ooOoo

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor before a huge glass wall, with Violet standing in front of him, hands pressed to the wall, mesmerised by the many colourful creatures gliding by. She raised an enquiring finger, pointed at one of the aquatic beasts and said,

'Wha?'

'That's a shark,' Sherlock replied.

'Sah?' asked Violet.

'Yes, it's a shark.'

Violet pondered that thought for a moment or two then turned her attention to another creature.

'Wha?'

'That's a blue fish,' Sherlock supplied.

'Boo-fis,' Violet echoed.

'Yes, blue fish,' Sherlock confirmed.

'Wha?' Violet pointed at another darting flash of colour.

'Yellow fish,' Sherlock replied, his limited knowledge of specific fish species more than compensated for by his encyclopaedic database on colour.

'Wewow?'

'Yes, yellow,' Sherlock nodded.

Violet pushed off from the window and pivoted towards her father, who caught her with both hands, smiling adoringly.

'Where shall we go now?' he asked.

Violet pointed down the glass-walled corridor and said,

'Doh-dat-der.'

'OK, that way,' he replied and climbed to his feet, settling Violet in the crook of his elbow and hoisting his leather satchel onto his shoulder.

Before leaving home that morning, Sherlock had transferred all Violet's bits and bobs from the baby bag - which was bright pink and covered in blue and yellow flowers - to his satchel. He appreciated the need to be well prepared when out and about with an infant but there was no way anything as garish as Molly's choice of baby bag would ever grace his shoulder. Along with not being seen dead pushing a baby buggy, it was a point on which he was adamant.

He strolled along the darkened corridor, flanked on both sides by giant aquaria, teeming with fish and other sea creatures, which Violet gazed at, wide eyed with wonder. This was her first experience of the Sea Life Centre and she was still trying to make sense of the gravity-defying antics of the tanks' occupants.

She was unusually still and quiet but not alarmed, in any way. Sherlock wondered what might be going on inside her little head. He had explained that the glass fronted tanks were full of water and that the animals within were swimming. What Violet understood from that, he couldn't be sure, but she was certainly engaging with the spectacle. Occasionally, whilst watching a particularly graceful creature, she would move her hands in imitation of its meandering progress and smile, beatifically.

At the end of the corridor, the space opened out into one of the Zones – the Coral Reef. This area was divided into a number of sunken pools surrounded by low barriers which allowed the visitors to look down into the pools without the risk of anyone falling – or climbing – into the water. Each pool in this particular zone was populated by a different selection of sea life, dictated by the habitat created by the different types of coral.

The first one they came upon was home to a variety of sea anemones, all waving their tentacles in the moving water, feeding on the minute particles of food to be found there. Swimming in amongst the tentacles were lots of small, brightly coloured fish – red, orange, green, blue and yellow, many striped and spotted and all busy feeding or fending off interlopers into their territory, or so it seemed. Violet watched them for several minutes, held in Sherlock's arms, affording her a bird's eye view of the activity in the water, then she waved her hand in the direction of the next pool.

They moved on.

This pool contained a lot of star-fish, dotted around over the surface of the coral. Slow-moving in nature, they appeared not to be doing much at all but were also engaged in eating, by turning their stomachs inside out and engulfing their prey, secreting enzymes to begin the digestion and then retracting their stomachs, bringing the pray inside their bodies, too. None of this could be seen from the poolside but a handy video screen showed the process in close-up detail. Sherlock and Violet studied this with unabashed fascination.

Moving to the next pool, Violet gazed into the water and wrinkled her brow. Apart from the coral itself, this pool appeared to be devoid of life. She looked around, searching every square inch of the watery environment but to no avail. There were no animals in here, she concluded and was raising her hand to urge Daddy on when a sudden movement caught her eye.

Rising up, slowly and gracefully, from the sandy bottom of the pool was a creature like no other that Violet had ever encountered. It had an oval shaped body, rounded but slightly flattened, the edge of which was fringed with a broad, undulating frill that the creature was using to propel itself along in the water. It had a large, triangular head, which was almost a quarter the size of its body, with two enormous eyes, one on either side. Extending out from the narrow tip of its head were several long arms that it waved around in the water or stretched out together, forming a pointed spike, or tucked underneath its chin.

All these details, Violet noted and catalogued in her visual memory, for future reference, but the thing that fascinated her most was the animal's skin. She hadn't noticed the creature before it moved because its skin was exactly the same colour and pattern as the sandy bottom of the pool. But, as it rose up into the water and began to swim about, its skin seemed to ripple in undulating waves and changed colour completely, to a darker hue with even darker bands of colour ranged along the length of its body.

Violet was instantly besotted with the animal.

'Wha?' she demanded, her face alight with awe and wonder.

'That's a squid,' said Sherlock.

'Wib?' she repeated.

'Yes, squid,' Sherlock replied.

Violet waved her arms, demanding a closer look. Sherlock hunkered down with one knee on the floor and Violet astride the other, so that she could lean forward and rest her hands on top of the barrier, gazing down into the water. She was transfixed by the squid's progress, as it went about its business around the habitat, exploring every nook and cranny of the coral mass, hunting for food, evicting little fish hiding there and chasing them through the water.

With Violet so intent on the pool activity, Sherlock took a moment to review his day. The all-important Work had had to be abandoned, the absence of caffeine and nicotine from his system was a nagging sensation in every fibre of his being and the Best Man's speech still hung over him like the Sword of Damocles. But a gram of Paracetamol had taken care of his headache and spending time with Violet had eclipsed everything else. Witnessing this new little person experiencing the wonders of the world for the very first time was a privilege and a joy he never knew existed. All other issues paled into insignificance beside it.

More cephalopods arrived from other parts of the pool and joined in the squid's elegant dance, adding still further to Violet's sheer delight. It seemed that she had found the love of her life and Sherlock knew that it would be some time before he would be able to tear her away.

ooOoo

 **I'm off to Edinburgh to see my DiL in a play so I might not be updating for a couple of weeks but I hope this slightly longer chapter will keep you all happy until I return. Thank you all for your favs, follows and reviews. :)**


	18. Until Death - Chapter Seventeen

**Back from Edinburgh, which was manic and exhausting but also great fun. My DiL's play was brilliant!**

 **And back to Sherlollyland! Hope you enjoy. :)**

 **Chapter Seventeen**

Arthur stood under the cantilevered canopy that hung above the front entrance to the university main building, sheltering from the rain as he waited for his ride. Tomorrow was Friday, designated a 'study day', but for Arthur it would be an opportunity to do some last minute preparations for his wedding day, which was just over a week away.

To be honest, wedding preparations seemed to be going surprisingly smoothly for such a momentous event. The house staff - Mrs Orgreave, the cook, Mrs Willis, the housekeeper, and Andrew Lewis, Mycroft's butler-cum-valet - had all the domestic arrangements well in hand. Arthur's remit included taking care of the entertainment, booking the celebrant and making sure his family had somewhere to stay for the weekend. That, and ordering his wedding suit, was all pretty much sorted.

It's too easy, he thought. He must have forgotten something. A sense of panic began to set in, as he hunched his shoulders against the cold, hands pushed deep into his jacket pockets, shuffling from one foot to the other to keep the heat-bearing blood circulating to his extremities. What had he forgotten? What vital ingredient had he over-looked?

A sleek, black ministerial car with darkened windows glided down the street and came to a smooth halt opposite the college entrance. A dark-suited man climbed out of the front passenger seat and stood beside the rear door, casting a watchful eye up and down the street, as Arthur shouldered his back pack and strode towards the car.

The presence of the close protection officer was a sure indication that Mycroft was in the vehicle. If the car was intended only for Arthur, it would have been sent with just a chauffeur – who was also a close protection officer but only Mycroft warranted two such individuals. The knowledge that Mycroft was already on board caused the corners of Arthur's mouth to curve into an involuntary smile, as he approached the staff car. Mr Suit stepped aside and held open the rear door so that Arthur could climb inside.

'Hello, handsome,' he grinned, unhitching the back pack from his shoulder and dumping it down on the spacious floor of the limo as he slid across the seat and enveloped his partner in a loving embrace. Anticipating Arthur's characteristic style of greeting, Mycroft had closed the privacy screen en route from Whitehall and now returned that greeting with a lingering kiss.

'How was your day?' asked Arthur, as they eased apart and he fastened his seat belt, to still the beeping alarm that had started up the moment the car began to move forward.

'Rather interesting,' Mycroft replied, resting his hand on Arthur's thigh with the casual intimacy of deep familiarity. 'Our Mr Needham's mobile phone history has proven quite a revelation.'

Arthur quirked a curious eyebrow.

'He made some charming acquaintances during his last stretch in prison, at HMP Swaleside on the Isle of Sheppey, and has kept in touch with them ever since, as evidenced by his phone record. Which rather supports my assertion that sending petty criminals like Needham to a Category B prison only teaches them how to be better criminals,' Mycroft concluded with a wry frown.

Arthur was all ears. If the source of Katy's – and, consequently, Mycroft's -anguish was being mentored by Category B prisoners, many of whom would be lifers, surely it would be a relatively easy task to get the man out of their lives for a very long time, if not for ever?

'What exactly has he been up to, then?' Arthur asked.

'That remains to be seen,' Mycroft replied. 'His phone records only reveal who he's been chatting to, not what they were chatting about, and he has no Internet history, so far as we have discerned. But the career choices of his new friends include money laundering, people trafficking, contract killings, prostitution and illegal imports - mainly fire arms and Class A drugs.'

Arthur barked a laugh.

'You are joking!' he exclaimed.

'In deed, I am not,' Mycroft insisted. 'Lots of potential there for quite a lucrative little cottage industry.'

'In _your_ cottage!' Arthur snorted.

'Yes, well, not for too much longer, I hope – although we must be cautious.'

Arthur understood what Mycroft was alluding to. They couldn't just barge in and arrest the man, since all the evidence they had, such as it was, had been gathered illegally, that is to say without a formal search warrant.

'So what do you intend to do?' he asked.

'I believe it is referred to in the vernacular as a _sting_ ,' Mycroft replied, wrinkling his nose at the slang terminology.

'Yes!' Arthur crowed, gleefully. 'Oh, do me a favour, will you? Make sure you film the whole thing? I want to see the look on that shithead's face when the cops move in and collar him.'

For Katy, he thought, for all the distress this nasty little man had caused her. And for Mycroft, too, for the sheer nerve of the man, to be engaging in his nefarious activities right under the nose of the British Government. And for himself because it had taken all the self-control he could muster, on more than one occasion, not to go around to the man's house and punch him right on his bigoted, homophobic, child-abusing nose.

'Aw, you've got it coming, Mr bloody Needham,' Arthur hissed.

'Indeed he does,' said Mycroft, smiling his best lizard smile and patting Arthur's knee.

ooOoo

'Hello, baby girl!' cooed Molly, scooping Violet up off the hall floor and smothering her in kisses. 'What's that you have there?' she asked, indicating the stuffed toy her daughter was clutching to her chest.

'Wib!' Violet replied.

'Can Mummy see it?' Molly wheedled, with a pleading expression.

Violet considered this proposition for several seconds then shook her head, vehemently and hugged the toy tighter.

'Did Daddy buy you that toy?' Molly enquired, in a playful, sing-song voice.

'Dad-dee!' beamed Violet.

'I might have known,' Molly smiled. 'You do love your daddy, don't you?'

'Dad-dee,' Violet echoed.

'And where is Superdaddy?' Molly wondered aloud, walking through to the kitchen with Violet in her arms, to be greeted by Marie, holding out a mug of tea.

'Marie, you are a bona fide national treasure,' Molly sighed, sinking down onto a chair and settling Violet in her lap before reaching out to receive the steaming mug of tea and take a satisfying sip. 'I swear that is the first drop of tea that has passed my lips all day, we've been so busy! How about you?'

'Well, I've had the whole day to myself, since Sherlock took Violet to the Aquarium, so I've had a good go at the boys' bedrooms. In fact, I've bottomed them. I even washed down the walls!' Marie seemed very pleased with her spring-cleaning.

Since the nanny came to work for them fulltime and moved into the basement flat, she had sort of become their housekeeper, gradually taking over more and more of the domestic chores. It was a role she seemed to relish and Molly was certainly grateful for the help. Sherlock was a very hands-on dad and did his fair share of preparing meals and loading the dish-washer but cleaning and tidying was not really his forte. In fact, he only ever cleaned when he was bored and needed a means of burning off some excess energy. Then he was like a whirling dervish, flying around the house with a duster or a mop or a sweeping brush, wielding the vacuum cleaner with alacrity - and this was a big house!

'You won't believe what I found behind Freddie's bed…' Marie continued. But she didn't get to finish her sentence because the door to the dining room burst open and Freddie came charging in.

'Mummy! You is home!' he chortled and threw his arms around his mother's waist, mere milliseconds after she had hastily placed her tea mug in the middle of the kitchen table, well out of harm's way.

'Hello, darling boy,' she cooed, hugging her youngest son with her free arm. 'What have you been up to today?'

'Oh, nuffink much,' was Freddie's blasé reply. 'De yooshual stuff. What has you been up to?'

'Oh, just cutting up bodies,' Molly mimicked him, 'you know, the usual stuff.'

They both giggled at the shared joke and Violet joined in, though she had no idea why they were laughing.

'Is William watching TV with Daddy?' Molly asked.

'No, he idn't,' said Freddie. 'Willyum id watchin' de TB but Daddy id asyeep on'a sofa. I fink dat Ada weared him out at de Quarwium.'

'Oh, poor Daddy! He's had a busy day then,' said Molly with a little grimace of sympathy for the Consulting Dad. She wondered whether he'd had any 'episodes' during his outing and, if he had, whether he had actually bothered to record what he'd been doing at the time. Probably not, she decided. Knowing him, he would just make something up.

' _What were you doing at 11.22 on Thursday morning, Mr Holmes, when you suffered these palpitations?'_ Molly imagining the cardiologist asking.

' _Oh, just wrestling an alligator,'_ replied the Sherlock inside her head.

'Well, I hope he didn't over-exert himself,' she said out loud.

'I fint he did,' Freddie observed, sagely. 'He wad snorewin' weawy youd! Willyum hab to put de heabpones on to hear de tewwy! Dat why I tummed in here toz I touldn't hear de tewwy at _all_.'

'Oh, poor Freddie!' Molly exclaimed, squeezing him tighter and pressing kisses to the crown of his head.

'Das aw-wight, Mummy! I yite it in 'ere, wib you an' Ada an' Mawie,' Freddie was at pains to reassure them.

 _What a dear little man you are_ , thought Molly, giving him an extra squeeze. Since that letter arrived from the school, Molly had been hyper-aware of the quirks in Freddie's speech. What had previously seemed cute and endearing now filled her with alarm and foreboding. _We must work hard on your articulation, my darling boy. I really don't want you to be bullied for the way you talk…_

Feeling that he had made a good stab at polite conversation and shown restraint for a commendable amount of time, Freddie came clean about the real reason he had come into the kitchen.

'Wi'w de supper be weady soon?' he enquired, tentatively, at which Molly and Marie burst out laughing and Molly ruffled his hair.

'I'm sure it will,' his mother assured him. 'You go and wash your hands and I'll go and wake Daddy and let William know it's supper time.'

Molly stood up, hefted Violet onto her hip and headed for the sitting room.

ooOoo

'It's not a squid, it's a cuttlefish,' said Molly.

'It's the same thing,' Sherlock huffed, petulantly.

'No, it isn't!' Molly exclaimed. 'They are two distinct and separate species.'

'Oh, for God's sake, what does it matter?' Sherlock muttered, folding his arms and hunching his shoulders in a dramatic display of annoyance.

'Well, it's misinformation,' retorted Molly, 'and something Violet will now have to unlearn – or be misinformed for the rest of her life.'

'Now you're being ridiculous,' Sherlock snorted.

Molly knew he was right and she couldn't believe she was behaving so childishly but her patience with Sherlock's grumpiness was wearing a little thin.

He'd obviously worked hard all day to keep his moodiness in check but, as soon as the children went to bed, he had slunk back to the sitting room sofa and slumped down onto it, glowering morosely. When Molly, in an attempt to jolly him out of his mood, had playfully pointed out that the toy he had bought for Violet was actually a cuttlefish and not a squid, he had snapped at her, venting his frustration by calling her a pedant. And so, this pointless argument had ensued and it had been going on for quite some time, neither side willing to back down, each becoming more deeply entrenched in their position.

'Violet is a baby. She can't possibly pronounce 'cuttlefish',' Sherlock man-splained. 'At least she can have a stab at 'squid'!'

He glared at his wife, challenging her to come back - yet again - with a rational rebuttal.

Molly pursed her lips and frowned. He did have a point.

'That's not why you told her it was a squid, though,' she countered, resorting to personal insults in a desperate attempt to gain the upper hand. 'You just got it wrong, Mr Know-it-all!'

Sherlock stared at his wife, shocked at the scathing tone of her voice, and suddenly he saw the hurt in Molly's expression and body language and he understood why she was being so snide. His features softened with contrition and he reached out a hand to take one of hers, giving it a little tug to pull her towards him.

'I'm sorry for being an arsehole,' he mumbled, wrapping his arms around her hips and pressing his face into her midriff.

Molly, instantly appeased, draped her arms over his shoulders and rested her cheek on the top of his head, hugging him back.

'I don't really think you're a Know-it-all,' she moued, 'or an arsehole...

'Well, you should because I am,' he grunted back. 'It's not your fault that I have to wear this stupid heart monitor and go Cold Turkey on caffeine and nicotine. I shouldn't take it out on you.'

'Only one more day,' she reminded him, her voice oozing sympathy.

'There's nothing wrong with my heart, Molly,' he groaned, easing her back so that he could look her in the eye.

'Oh, Sherlock, you really can't say that…' Molly began, with a hint of despair.

'But I can,' he insisted, admitting to himself, at last, that he had to come clean about the real cause of his heart palpitations. 'Sit down,' he said, 'please,' indicating the empty space beside him on the sofa.

Molly accepted his invitation and he turned to face her, taking both her hands in his.

'I've been having panic attacks,' he stated, bluntly, avoiding eye contact out of a sense of shame at his own emotional weakness.

'Oh, baby!' Molly cried, reaching out to touch his cheek. He reclaimed her hand and drew it back down to join the other, shaking his head. He needed to get this out, with as few interruptions as possible.

'It's the Best Man's speech…' he began - and went on to unburden himself of his inner turmoil.

Molly listened, quietly, absorbing all the hurt, anger and despair implicit in her husband's explanation of why the task of giving a speech at his brother's wedding should be so onerous. She knew something of Sherlock's childhood, mostly thanks to the letter Caro had written to her, whilst she, Sherlock, William and Freddie were in Rio, the summer before last. Sherlock was understandably reticent on the subject but there had been a few occasions on which he had opened up and given her the briefest of glimpses into his difficult past.

But this out-pouring was quite unprecedented and Molly had to fight, with every fibre of her being, to resist the urge to throw her arms around him and hug him to within an inch of his life. Her eyes stung with unshed tears, made all the more imminent by the stoicism with which he kept his own eyes dry. But, looking into those eyes, Molly could see the bewildered five-year old Sherlock gazing out, wondering what he could possibly have done to deserve the loveless existence into which he had been born.

As he came to the conclusion of his lengthy and detailed confession, Sherlock took a deep breath - squaring his shoulders and stiffening his spine - then blew it out in a long, nasal sigh of relief to be unburdened, at last, regarding the true cause of his recent health scare. He dropped his chin then looked at Molly, sheepishly, from under his fringe.

'I'm sorry,' he said, simply.

That was all it took to break her self-restraint and she threw herself at him, gathering him up in her arms and holding him to her heart. If sheer force of will could have obliterated a lifetime of emotional abuse at the hands of those who should have loved, cared for and protected him, then Molly surely would have succeeded. As it was, she could do no more than assure him that now, and for the rest of his life, he would be cherished, adored and accepted, unconditionally, by the people who really counted - her and their children.

When Molly finally managed to peel herself off her husband, having covered his face in tear-soaked kisses, he smoothed his thumbs across her cheeks, brushing the tears aside, and pressed his own lips to hers. She tasted of salt.

'Shall we go to bed?' he suggested.

'No funny business,' she replied, with a hint of an impish smile, though her head still felt light from all the emotion.

'I'm game if you are,' he said, his eyebrows quirking, suggestively.

'What about your wire?' Molly asked.

'Sod the wire,' he replied.

ooOoo


	19. Until Death - Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen**

'You don't need to come with me,' said Sherlock.

'I know I don't _need_ to – but I'd like to,' Molly replied.

'I'm only dropping off the damn machine, Molly! I can manage that on my own!' he snapped, probably more forcefully than he intended. Discerning her almost imperceptible recoil, he reached out immediately and cupped her jaw. 'I'm only dropping off the machine,' he reiterated, in a softer tone and with a smile of apology for his previous outburst. 'You go off to work and don't worry about me.'

Molly pursed her lips and gave a little nod. Asking her not to worry was a lost cause. When it came to her family, it was her default position. But Sherlock did have a point. The results of the test would not be revealed today and he didn't need a chaperone. She stood on tiptoe to deliver a goodbye kiss and he dipped his head to receive it.

'Have a good day and don't work too hard,' he murmured, between serial kisses.

'Ditto,' she replied, 'and remember what we spoke about? You need to talk to someone,' she added, followed by a final kiss, and then she departed.

Remember what they spoke about? How could he forget! He seemed to have spent the entire weekend thinking about the conversation he and Molly had shared, the other evening, about his childhood. Molly was adamant that he should see a counsellor or a therapist. Molly had great faith in medical practitioners – not surprising, since she was one herself – but Sherlock remained unconvinced.

The only 'therapist' he had ever really trusted was Eve Matthews. He had turned to her on a couple of occasions in the past. But Eve worked for Mycroft and, in Sherlock's mind at least, that meant that everything he told Eve would eventually find its way into a file that Mycroft would read. And there were many things in Sherlock's past that he had no desire whatsoever to share with his brother.

It had taken every ounce of his resolve to open up to Molly, and he and she were as closely bonded as it was possible for two human beings to be. So how could he possibly share his inner torment with any one else?

But he had promised Molly that he would give the matter some thought. And he would.

It had been a fraught weekend, without doubt. Even though Sherlock had disconnected himself from the heart monitor after forty-eight hours had elapsed - and had, therefore, been free to drink as much coffee and wear as many nicotine patches as he so desired – Molly had asked him to continue his caffeine and nicotine fast, at least until the test results were back. And because he knew she only had his best interest in mind, he had agreed to the plan but that didn't mean he hadn't been craving both substances as if his very life depended on them!

Addiction! Yes, he was more than willing to hold up his hand and proclaim 'mea culpa'. He had an addictive personality. If it wasn't nicotine and caffeine, it was solving crime – or even more dangerous indulgences. It was a simple matter of the lesser of many evils and, fortunately, solving crime was very much his preferred stimulant. Unfortunately, the criminal classes were being particularly boring at the present time, put off, perhaps, from venturing out to commit their nefarious deeds by the persistently inclement weather.

Sherlock gazed across at the rain-spattered kitchen window and sighed.

Then there was the bomb-shell that Mrs Whatever-her-name-was had dropped, when Molly took Freddie for his playdate with Morgan, on Saturday - Morgan would be leaving St Paul's at the end of the week, after only two half terms.

' _I hope Freddie and Morgan can still be friends,' Sophie Tomlinson had said to Molly, 'even though they won't be seeing one another every day.'_

 _Molly had assured her friend that the playdate arrangement could still continue but, in her heart of hearts, she felt that without the daily contact the two boys would probably drift apart._

' _We just don't feel that St Paul's is the right environment for Morgan,' Sophie explained._

 _Molly wondered whether three months was long enough to make such a judgement but Morgan was not her child and she wasn't about to question the choices her friend was making for him._

' _We had such high hopes,' Sophie continued, 'especially after all the problems at his last school. They asked us to remove him, you know!'_

 _Molly looked askance._

' _Morgan's last school asked you to remove him?' she queried, just to be sure she had heard correctly._

' _Yes, after he stabbed another child in the hand with a pencil.'_

 _Molly was even more askance. She looked across at Morgan and Freddie, playing amicably together with Morgan's extensive collection of toy cars and buses, and found it hard to believe that Freddie's friend could be capable of such an aggressive act._

' _He didn't mean to hurt the child,' Morgan's mother explained. 'He was just testing the parameters of the pencil. He'd already prodded a few other things with it - some play dough, a couple of sponges and the table top - then he saw the other child's hand resting on the table and… well, he was as surprised as anyone when the poor thing started howling!'_

 _Molly could see how that could happen. She knew Morgan well enough to know that he found it difficult to see the world from anyone's perspective but his own._

' _And before that, it was the hair-cutting,' added Sophie, ruefully._

 _Molly's eyes widened and she bit her bottom lip, apprehensively._

' _The children were cutting out shapes in folded paper, at the time, to make patterns,' Sophie elaborated. 'Morgan was sitting next to a little girl with braids – lots of little braids, with beads attached. Morgan had been fascinated by those braids ever since the little girl's mummy had put them in. He was always trying to touch them, sniff them, give them a little tug... Anyway, after he finished cutting out his paper shapes, I think he was just looking around for something else to cut. He must have spotted the braids and… well, he just snipped one off, beads and all!'_

 _Molly couldn't stop herself. She burst out laughing at the mental image of Morgan snipping off a braid, even though she knew it was no laughing matter._

' _Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry!' she gasped, trying desperately to control her hilarity but to no avail._

 _The other mother had to smile, too, but only briefly._

' _The little girl's mummy was furious,' she went on, her expression reverting to a frown, 'but what could I do other than apologise? I even offered to pay for hair extensions but that didn't go down well at all. Apparently, there wasn't enough hair left to attach hair extensions.'_

' _But what were the staff doing, while all these three year olds were brandishing scissors?' Molly asked. She couldn't help thinking that there had been a serious breach of care in that classroom. Serious though the severed braid was, it could have been a lot worse! The loss of an eye, perhaps?_

' _Well, that was my question,' replied Sophie. 'I mean, Morgan had his own one-to-one classroom assistant sitting right next to him on both occasions. But when I asked why she hadn't been able to prevent these incidents, she said that Morgan was too quick for her!'_

 _Molly shook her head in disbelief._

' _If you ask me, she was probably too busy chatting to the other children and not paying attention to Morgan at all,' Sophie declared. 'She never really bonded with him. And he never really bonded with her. Anyway, after the pencil stabbing incident, they said they couldn't accommodate Morgan any more so I had to look around for another school.'_

 _Molly felt so sorry for Morgan - and his parents. It must have been so hurtful to be told their child was not welcome at his school, at only three years old!_

' _Anyway, my husband and I did some research and we found out about a school in North London that sounded perfect for Morgan – the Rudolph Steiner School?'_

 _Molly had heard about Rudolph Steiner Schools and how their approach to education was specifically tailored to each child._

' _We made some enquiries but they didn't have any vacancies in the appropriate group.'_

 _That must have been very disappointing, thought Molly._

' _We sent him to St Paul's because they have small class sizes. And their staffing ratios are quite generous, even though they couldn't give Morgan a one-to-one. But…' Mrs Tomlinson hesitated, concerned that she was about to say something contentious. After a second or two, she resolved to say it anyway. 'But that SENCO woman, Mrs Weston…' she spat the word with a degree of vitriol '…well, the way she talks about children like Morgan!'_

' _Talks about them?' Molly echoed. 'In what way?' she asked._

' _She called him an 'autist'!' Mrs Tomlinson exclaimed, in a stage whisper so that the two playing children did not overhear her, but the tears that started in her eyes betrayed her deeply felt emotions._

 _Molly reached out a hand to comfort her friend._

' _She said, 'Oh, I know all about these autists. We can deal with your child.' 'Deal' with my child!'_

 _Molly could empathise with the other woman, entirely. This sounded all too familiar._

' _But you sent him, anyway?' Molly asked._

' _Well, we didn't feel we had much choice. And we thought perhaps his class teacher would be more sympathetic to his needs and less judgmental, which she is! But Mrs Weston is always interfering, telling the teacher to do things differently.'_

 _This information filled Molly with trepidation as she envisaged Mrs Weston interfering with Freddie's education, too._

' _So what are you going to do?' she asked._

' _Well,' Sophie replied, grabbing a tissue and blowing her nose, 'we've had an absolute stroke of luck.' She balled the tissue and tossed it into the waste basket then continued. 'We got a letter from the Rudolph Steiner School, saying that they had a couple of vacancies at their Early Years Centre.'_

' _We made an appointment to visit the school and let Morgan have a look around, and they've offered him a place! There's a trial period – the first half term – but if they're satisfied they can meet his needs, he'll be given a permanent place after that.' For the first time that afternoon, Mrs Tomlinson was genuinely smiling._

' _Well, that sounds absolutely wonderful!' Molly exclaimed, with mixed emotions. Even though she was happy that Morgan seemed to have found the perfect place for him, she was sad that Freddie would no longer have the pleasure of his friend's company every day. The likelihood was that Morgan would make new friends at the Steiner School and the weekend and holiday playdates would become fewer and further between._

 _And that had been Molly's greatest concern when she imparted this information to Sherlock, on her and Freddie's return._

' _I know I'm being selfish,' she admitted. 'This school sounds perfect for Morgan. But I know Freddie will miss his little friend.'_

It had cast a bit of a shadow over the rest of the weekend. But it was Monday morning, now, and Sherlock needed to shower, shave and dress and get himself along to St Mary's to hand in this infernal machine – which he knew would yield absolutely nothing of significance at all! He gave a mental shake of his head, to clear it of all those post-weekend musings, strode from the kitchen and mounted the stairs, two at a time, en route to complete the first element of his morning's mission.

ooOoo

'I wonder what Caro will get up to today?' Arthur grinned, sitting beside Mycroft on the back seat of the staff car, as they sped south from Hertfordshire, towards the capital. Mycroft furrowed his brow and gave a noncommittal hum.

'She means well, I know,' he said, at last, 'but some matters require delicate handling. Being the local landowner, with the power of life and death – in a manner of speaking, of course - over most of the village residents, I can't be seen to be demanding special treatment for my children.'

'Hardly special treatment!' exclaimed Arthur. 'You're not asking for anything out of the ordinary. All you're asking is that your children are not bullied because of your sexual orientation. That's every parent's right, surely? Lord of the bloody Manor or lowliest peasant?'

'You mustn't call them peasants,' Mycroft chided his fiancée.

'In Needham's case, I beg to differ,' Arthur snorted. 'That man is a bloody peasant…'

'Yes, I agree, entirely,' Mycroft nodded, squeezing Arthur's shoulders and planting an affectionate kiss on his temple. When it came to calling a spade a spade, he could always rely on his partner to call it a bloody shovel. But Mycroft was far more subtle than that. He gave a smile of satisfaction at the plan he had put in place to deal with Mr Needham. That man's world was about to crash down upon his head and, when it did, there would be no escape.

ooOoo

 **The two incidents I 'borrowed' for this chapter, with regard to Freddie's friend Morgan, both actually happened in a school where I once worked. And, sadly, the little chap in question was asked to leave, bless him. But I'm pleased to say he found a place in another school where the powers-that-be were far more sensitive to his needs and he did extremely well there. The little girl's hair grew back and the little boy's hand healed, so it was all fine, in the end. :)**


	20. Until Death - Chapter Nineteen

**Some strong language in this chapter. Just sayin'... :)**

 **Chapter Nineteen**

After depositing Arthur outside the University of Westminster, the staff car continued on its way, with its remaining occupant in a far more pensive mood, and delivered Mycroft to his office building on Whitehall. Once ensconced behind his walnut desk, with an in-tray overflowing with documents requiring his urgent attention and a cup of his favourite tea at his elbow, the Iceman picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number.

'Yes, sir,' the disembodied voice at the other end of the line replied to his enquiry, 'the surveillance equipment was installed on Friday, as per your instructions, and it has already borne fruit.'

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in appreciation of that announcement.

On Friday, under the cover of carrying out routine maintenance on several estate properties, Mycroft had ordered the installation of voice and video recording equipment – all legal and above board, with the necessary warrants obtained - in Mr Needham's home. And, crucially, he had facilitated the tapping of Mr Needham's mobile phone.

' _Mr Needham?' the man in the blue boiler suit enquired._

' _Yeah,' Bryan Needham replied, giving the man and his boiler suit a suspicious once-over._

 _Holding out his photo ID, the visitor explained,_

' _We're here to carry out PAT testing in your property and also to renew the Gas Safety Certificate. I believe you had notification from your landlord?'_

' _What testin'?' Needham grunted._

' _PAT testing, sir, and Gas Safety,' the man replied._

' _And what the 'ell's PAT testin'?' Needham demanded._

' _We need to test all your electronic appliances to make sure they're safe to use and not likely to cause an electrical fire…sir,' the man explained, taking pains to maintain a polite countenance._

' _There's nothin' wrong with any o' my appliances!' Needham retorted, belligerently._

' _It's a legal requirement, sir. It has to be done every year.'_

 _This was not strictly true but Mycroft had gambled that Needham would be ignorant of that fact._

' _Since when?' Needham blustered._

' _Since 1989, sir.'_

' _We've never 'ad it done before,' the surly tenant growled._

' _Well, you need to take that up with your landlord, sir…you might even be entitled to some compensation for his oversight…'_

 _Mycroft had prepared a script, anticipating Needham's likely objections, and he knew all too well what would pique his tenant's interest._

'… _but it's for your own safety. You wouldn't want your house to burn down, just because of a dodgy mobile phone charger, now would you? And your landlord is footing the bill.'_

 _Mr Needham peered, morosely, at the man's ID then checked out the official-looking blue van, parked beyond his garden gate, and the second boiler-suited man standing behind the first, before shouting over his shoulder,_

' _Maureen? Maureen? Where the 'ell are ya, ya stupid cow?'_

 _As he waited for his errant wife to put in an appearance, he continued to glower at the visitors._

' _Whatever's the matter?' gasped Mrs Needham, who had been wrangling a load of laundry out of the washing machine and onto the Victorian airer, that hung from the ceiling in the cottage kitchen, but had abandoned the task in order to answer her husband's call._

' _These blokes need to test our electrics…'_

' _Electrical appliances, madam,' corrected the first contractor._

' _Whatever…' Needham muttered._

' _And your gas appliances,' added the second man, with a cheerful smile._

' _Sort 'em out, woman,' Mr Needham snarled. 'I'm goin' for a jar.'_

' _Er, sir…' interjected the first man '…do you have a mobile phone?'_

' _Yes! What of it?' Needham's short fuse was nearly burned down._

' _We'll need it, sir, to test the charger…' replied the man, apologetically._

 _Needham huffed a disgruntled sigh and reached into his trouser pocket, took out his mobile phone and slapped it into the hand of the other man._

' _Thank you, sir,' the man said._

By that small, innocuous act, Bryan Needham had ensured that Mycroft Holmes would be privy to the content of all his mobile phone communications with his new-found felonious friends.

'Over the weekend, we intercepted a conversation that referred to a shipment due to arrive, imminently, at Felixstowe. The transcript has been despatched to you, sir.'

Mycroft reached for the pile of documents in his in-tray and selected the one on the top, flipping it open to verify it was the Needham file. He thanked the other party and gave further instructions then closed the line and sat back in his chair, sipping tea and nodding his appreciation as he read through the transcript.

' _Hello?'_

' _Needham? Where are you?'_

' _I'm at 'ome. Why?'_

' _Are you alone?'_

 _'Yeah, more or less… Just me an' the wife.'_

' _Go somewhere private.'_

' _It's only the wife, for Gawd's sake!'_

' _Don't fucking argue! Just go!'_

 _(Background noises of doors opening, footsteps_ _and doors closing. Change in ambient sound – enclosed space?)_

' _Awright, I'm in the fuckin' karsie! That private enough for you?'_

' _Just shut your trap and listen. There's a shipment arriving next Thursday, at Felixstowe, three in the morning…'_

' _Great! I'll meet it!'_

' _Not at the port, you muppet! No, you need to meet it by the train station at Manningtree…'_

' _Train station? That's a bit risky, ain't it?'_

 _(Caller's comment indistinct – possibly cursing?)_

' _It's a little country station, you fucking moron, not bloody King's Cross Saint shittin' Pancras!'_

' _Yeah, awright, awright, don't bust a bollock! So, what time will it get there?'_

' _How the fuck should I know, for Christ's sake? Just take the usual transport, make sure you're there by three o'clock and wait til the currier arrives. Then you take the merchandise and deliver it to the safe house, OK?'_

' _Yeah! OK! Gotcha! What sort o' vehicle am I lookin' for?'_

' _Tanker. Hazardous waste. You can't miss it, not even a dumb fucker like you.'_

' _Oi! I ain't dumb! An' I ain't a fucker, awright?'_

' _Yeah, whatever. Just don't fuck this up, Needham. There's a lot riding on this shipment.'_

' _I ain't fucked it up yet, 'ave I?'_

' _No, but that other stuff was just a trial run – checking to see if you were up to the job. This one's the real deal. You get this right and, well, your future's bright! You'll be playing with the Big Boys!'_

 _(Enthusiastic laughter from Needham.)_

' _I'm ready for this, Wilshaw! I'm really…'_

' _NO NAMES, YOU FUCKING IDIOT! We told you, no names!'_

' _Yeah, yeah! Sorry! I just got a bit excited. But don't worry, there's nobody here. No one can hear me!'_

' _I don't care! You just remember, in future, right?'_

' _Yeah, awright.'_

' _Right. See you Thursday.'_

 _(Line closes.)_

Once the tap was in place, it had been a simple case of waiting for Mr Needham to incriminate himself - and his friends. These things were often only a matter of time and Mycroft was a very patient man. But, on this occasion, patience had not been required.

'Wilshaw,' Mycroft mused. 'Mr Wilshaw, delighted to meet you!'

ooOoo

When Sherlock entered the Reception Area of the Cardiology Outpatients Department at St Mary's NHS Trust, he was surprised to see John Watson sitting in one of the waiting room chairs, dressed in his hospital scrubs, perusing a magazine. Sherlock didn't like being taken by surprise. It was bad for his image – and his self-esteem – so he strode past his friend, en route to the Reception Desk, uttering a casual, 'Good morning, Dr Watson,' as he passed by.

John looked up from his magazine, a little flustered, and turned to see Sherlock's rear view retreating to the far end of the room. He put down the magazine, jumped to his feet and joined his friend at the counter.

'Kind of you to come, John, but I think I can manage this mission by myself, thank you,' Sherlock remarked, acerbically.

'What mission?' John asked, much to Sherlock's increased annoyance. The Consulting Detective merely rolled his eyes and waited, impatiently, for the Receptionist to finish her phone conversation so that he could unburden himself of the heart monitor and get the hell out of there.

John leaned an elbow on the counter and hummed a little tune to himself, while Sherlock tried – unsuccessfully - to ignore him. Eventually the phone conversation ended and the Receptionist turned to Sherlock and smiled.

'Mr Holmes?' she said.

Sherlock furrowed his brow at the recognition but then dismissed it – his image had been in the newspapers often enough; of course people would recognise him, occasionally. It was an unfortunate by-product of being the world's only Consulting Detective.

'I've brought this _thing_ back,' he said, rather unnecessarily since the object in question was now sitting on the counter top, in plain sight.

'Lovely!' said the lady. 'And did you bring your Episode Diary, too?'

Sherlock had been hoping to get away with not having to produce that particular document. It was sitting in his pocket, practically burning a hole in the lining of his coat with its infernal presence. But the Receptionist's expression, though superficially benign, barely concealed an underlying ruthless determination. She would have the diary, come hell or high water. Reluctantly, Sherlock pulled out the A5 booklet and placed it on the counter top, next to the heart monitor.

'Thank you, Mr Holmes,' smiled the lady. 'Now, just take a seat. The doctor will see you in a few moments.'

'What? No…!' Sherlock spluttered. 'I don't need to see the doctor, I just needed to return the machine. And I have, so good day to you, madam…'

'Ah, that's where I come in,' said John.

Sherlock looked at his friend – for want of a better description - with shock and suspicion etched in every line of his face.

'What do you mean?' he asked, suspicion deepening to a sense of foreboding.

'I checked on the hospital computer and found out what time your appointment was and then I called my colleague in Cardiology and pulled in a few favours. They're fast tracking your download and analysis. They're going to give you your results today,' John explained. 'So come and sit down.'

Out-thought and out-manoeuvred, Sherlock felt betrayed.

'Did Molly put you up to this?' he seethed.

'No, mate. I put me up to this, all by myself – with a bit of Queen's Counsel from Mary. We thought, knowing you as we do, that once you left this place we'd never manage to get you back in here so…we hatched a plan. And this is it! So, after you…' John gestured in the direction of the waiting room chairs and Sherlock, with a huff of annoyance, preceded him to a seat and slumped into it, folding his arms in defeat and pouting petulantly.

John took a seat on the exit-ward side of his friend and gave a nod of satisfaction. Mission accomplished.

ooOoo


	21. Until Death - Chapter Twenty

**This is a short up-date - and not very sweet either...!**

 **Chapter Twenty**

Sherlock sat hunched in the molded plastic waiting room chair, wearing a pinched expression and turning a cold shoulder towards his companion. John by contrast, relaxed in his chair with his legs outstretched, as he flipped though yet another magazine. He came across an article on interior design and paused to study it more closely.

He and Mary had been living in their shared ownership flat for several years, now, and they were thinking of doing a spot of home improvement and redecorating, so they were actively looking for ideas and suggestions as to what they might include in their design. He settled down to read the article, which had several accompanying photographs that looked rather interesting, too.

'Don't you have patients to see, or _something_?' Sherlock snapped, to gain John's attention.

'No, mate,' John replied, without taking his eyes from the magazine, 'I'm on nights this week. Finished my shift at seven o'clock.'

'Then surely you should be at home, getting some well-earned restful sleep so that you can return, refreshed, tonight and perform even more life-saving miracles?'

'I managed a couple of hours' kip in the Duty Doctors' Room, after I clocked off,' John replied, choosing not to rise to the heavy sarcasm. 'And when I get home, I'll go straight to bed, and be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed again, by this evening.'

Sherlock lapsed back into a sullen silence, looking every inch the stroppy teenager, forced by his over-bearing parents to attend some annoyingly trivial event. But behind that disgruntled façade, his mind was racing, as ever. He wondered if he should call Molly. She really wanted to be with him when he got the results from the Holter monitor.

But she had lost quite a bit of time from work, lately - with school meetings about Freddie and whatnot - and she had booked two days' holiday, following Mycroft's wedding, so that they didn't have to rush back to London on the Sunday night. Sherlock knew Molly would want to clear her desk before the weekend, so as not to leave anything pending that would increase her colleagues' workloads, in her absence.

So he couldn't call her now and ask her to dash over to St Mary's. It just wasn't an option.

He glanced across at John, engrossed in his magazine. He knew his friend meant well but, sometimes, John's behaviour could be rather galling. It was bad enough when Mycroft assumed the role of 'father' in their relationship – at least he had some precedence – but it was even worse when John did it! They were, after all, supposed to be equals, colleagues, best friends even.

Sherlock looked around at all the other people sitting in the waiting room and wondered how many of them wish they'd had a doctor friend who could have pulled a few strings and bumped them up the waiting list? The average waiting time for an NHS referral was eighteen weeks. Had these people been waiting that long? Was he being ungrateful?

'Mr Holmes?' The voice broke into his thoughts and he looked up to see a nurse gazing around the room, waiting for someone to identify themselves. But John was already on his feet and beckoning for Sherlock to do likewise so he rose from the chair with as much dignity as he could muster, under the circumstances, and made to stride forward but suddenly stopped and turned to his friend.

'Thank you, John. I can take it from here,' he said.

John gave him a cynical smile and shook his head but, as he opened his mouth to demur, Sherlock ducked his head and hissed into his friend's ear,

'I have no idea which or how many protocols you have breached in order to facilitate my queue-jumping but, on one issue, I am completely clear and that is my right to patient confidentiality. You are not my doctor, John, and the fact that you have accessed my private medical files, without my permission, I find rather disturbing.'

John stepped back and looked at his friend with a mixture of surprise and amusement, not quite sure whether Sherlock was being serious or not.

'You're right,' he said at last, stepping forward again to keep the conversation private between the two of them. 'I've put my career on the line to do this for you. I could be severely disciplined for abusing the privilege of my position…'

'Ah, well, I'm glad that you are at least aware of that,' Sherlock replied. 'But you've done more than enough, thank you, so off you go back home and leave me to have a private consultation with my physician.'

John stared open-mouthed at the ingrate then gave an indignant huff and said,

'Fine. Fine. If that's how you want to play it. But remind me never to do you any more favours, will you?'

'Hopefully, I won't have to,' Sherlock replied.

Without another word, John turned and stalked out of the clinic.

Sherlock turned back to the nurse, waiting by the double doors that led from the public area to the clinical area. She had been intrigued by the whispered exchange between the two men but had been unable to hear any of the subject matter.

'After you,' said Sherlock, giving her a charming smile.

The nurse led the way into the consulting room and Sherlock recognised the same cardiologist who had treated him in A and E, the week before. She greeted him with a professional smile and gestured for him to take a seat in the patient's chair.

'I have the printout from your Holter monitor, Mr Holmes, and also the results of the blood tests I ordered…' she began.

'Good,' replied Sherlock, abruptly. 'Are they those?' he asked, pointing to the file on the desk in front of the doctor.

'Er, yes, they are…' she answered, a little taken aback by his brusque manner.

'Fine. Would you be so kind as to pop them into an envelope. I'll take them with me,' declared Sherlock, smiling brightly and nodding towards the file.

'Oh, but I thought…' the registrar stammered.

'I fear you've been misinformed,' Sherlock interjected, adopting an apologetic tone. 'I never asked to be given preferential treatment. I am painfully aware that the resources of the National Health Service are stretched almost to breaking point and I, unlike the other patients waiting out there, am fortunate enough to be able to afford very comprehensive private medical insurance.'

The doctor was staring at him, nonplussed, as Sherlock continued,

'So, if you don't mind, I'll take the results of my tests – tests for which I am extremely grateful – and I'll take them to my GP. And if he feels that any further investigation is required, he will make a private referral for me to see a cardiologist. And I won't need to take up any more of your, or the NHS's, precious time.'

Sherlock cocked his head at the registrar as she stared back at him, for several seconds, then gave a curt nod and reached across her desk to retrieve a large brown envelope.

'If that is your wish, Mr Holmes, then I will fulfil it,' she said, removing the printouts from the hospital folder and pushing them into the envelope, along with the cursed diary. She then sealed the envelope and, after tapping a few keys on her keyboard, she copied the name of Sherlock's GP from her screen onto the envelope then wrote, in large uppercase letters, PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL, along the top of the envelope before handing it to him.

Sherlock accepted it, graciously, rose from his chair and offered her his hand.

'I'm glad to see you looking better, Mr Holmes,' the doctor said as they shook hands. 'And I found your diary content quite intriguing,' she added, with a mischievous smile.

Sherlock returned her smile with a nod and exited the consulting room, clutching the plain brown envelope to his chest.

ooOoo

 **Yes, Sherlock hates to be out-thought and out-manoeuvred!**

 **Thank you to all my faithful readers for your continued support and your lovely reviews. I do love to hear what you think of my scribbling!**


	22. Until Death - Chapter Twenty-One

**A shortish up-date. Sorry about the delay. It's been one of those months...**

 **Chapter Twenty-One**

'I won't be coming home on Wednesday night,' said Mycroft, after Arthur joined him in the back of the staff car, and once the usual greetings had been exchanged.

'Oh, right?' Arthur replied, the inflexion in his voice expressing his curiosity. 'Something big going down, is there?' he added, with an impish grin.

'Just something I need to supervise in the early hours of the morning and I'd rather not disturb your sleep,' Mycroft replied, with a tiny eye-roll at his partner's playfulness. Arthur did love to tease him about his work, sometimes referring to him as 'M' and asking him if he'd started any wars lately. It was mildly reminiscent of Sherlock but, in Arthur's case, it wasn't unkindly meant.

'Oh, you can't fool me,' Arthur exclaimed, giving Mycroft an affectionate poke in the ribs. 'You're going to do it, aren't you!'

'And what is the 'it' to which you refer?' Mycroft intoned, turning away and concentrating his imperious gaze on the passing scenery, through the darkened windows of the vehicle.

'You're having a Stag Night, after all!'

Arthur had already had his Stag Weekend, the previous month – a weekend in Amsterdam with his ex-Army mates and a couple of pals from Uni. Mycroft had no idea what they got up to - 'What happens on Stag, stays on Stag' had been the group's motto – but he knew his fiance well enough to rest assured that a fair bit of drinking - and perhaps some moderate substance abuse in the coffee houses of the Dutch capitol – was all that had transpired.

But Mycroft had eschewed his right to a bachelor party, on the grounds that he and his friends - or colleagues, as he called them - were far too long in the tooth for such shenanigans. And despite Arthur's best efforts to change his mind, he had stuck to his guns on the matter. But Arthur hadn't given up on the idea altogether. He never missed an opportunity to bring it up.

'No,' Mycroft replied, with exaggerated patience, 'I am not having a Stag Night.'

'Don't give me that!' Arthur guffawed, nudging Mycroft with his shoulder. 'You and those old fossils at the Diogenes Club? I bet you're going to paint the town red!'

'I shall be home on Thursday night, though - assuming everything goes according to plan, of course,' Mycroft went on, resolutely ignoring his partner's provocative banter.

'What? If you've slept off your hangover, you mean!' chortled Arthur.

'And I'll be working from home, on Friday, since some of the wedding guests will be arriving that day and I'd like to be available to greet them,' Mycroft continued, in the same vein.

'Oh, so it's going to be a two-day bender! Well, why not! Mine was…'

'Have you quite finished?' Mycroft asked, giving Arthur the pained look he normally reserved for Sherlock.

'No!' Arthur replied, grinning from ear to ear. 'There's way more mileage in this. I haven't even started on the male escort jokes…'

With a reflex action, starkly in contrast to his usual languid manner, Mycroft shot out a hand and caught Arthur around the nape of his neck, leaning in and silencing him with a blistering kiss that seemed to go on for ever, before disengaging when he murmured,

'You are all I desire in that particular department, now and for the foreseeable future.'

'Just checking,' Arthur smiled and Mycroft resumed the kiss.

ooOoo

Sherlock trotted down the stairs in Firs Lodge and crossed the hall to the kitchen where he found Molly, putting the finishing touches to loading the dishwasher.

'Babies gone off alright?' Molly asked.

'Yes…' Sherlock replied, with an edge to his voice that caused Molly to look up, apprehensively.

'But?' she said.

'William says he doesn't want to be put to bed anymore. He wants to do it by himself,' replied Sherlock, his brows creasing in anticipation of Molly's reaction.

'Oh?' Molly stopped what she was doing, her expression morphing into one of mild dismay.

The couple had always taken the position that their children should each be encouraged to develop at their own pace but whenever one of them passed a major milestone, Molly could not help but feel the pain of loss for the child they had been. Sherlock, correctly predicting her reaction to his news, moved forward to wrap his arms around her. Molly leaned against him as he rocked her, gently.

'They grow up so fast,' she sighed, wistfully.

'He's just preparing himself,' Sherlock said, in an attempt to mitigate the situation but Molly pulled back and gave him a suspicious look that demanded further explanation. He took a deep breath and plunged straight in.

'He says that when he starts boarding we won't be there to tuck him in at night so he wants to get used to the idea, in advance.'

William had been offered a place in the cathedral choir, starting the following September, which meant that he would have to become a boarder at the cathedral school - and he had decided to accept the place. But Molly was still getting used to the idea.

'Oh!' she exclaimed and tears sprang instantly to her eyes, as Sherlock knew they would. He hugged her closer, resting his cheek on the top of her head, as he reminded her,

'It's his choice. It's what he wants.'

'I know,' Molly sniffed. 'That's the only thing that makes it remotely bearable!'

Sherlock was moderately more sanguine than Molly about William's decision. He had been packed off to boarding school at the age of nine – following a rather ill-advised exposé of his father's extra-marital activities, at the dinner table – and, although he didn't miss home at all, he was never really happy at school. But his situation was entirely different from William's. William knew his parents loved him and that home was only a phone call away.

'So what did you say when he told you that?' Molly asked, returning to the conversation.

Sherlock beetled his brows and gave a little shrug.

'I told him that he had clearly given the matter a good deal of consideration and come to a logical decision, under the circumstances, and that the plan he had devised was full of sensible precautions.'

That was such a 'Sherlockian' thing to say, Molly had to smile in spite of herself.

'But I also told him,' Sherlock continued, 'that if at any time he felt it appropriate to deviate from the plan then he shouldn't feel obliged to continue, regardless. Rules are, after all, open to interpretation and circumstances can change over time.'

'Oh, Sherlock!' Molly exclaimed, throwing her arms around her husband's neck and hugging him tight. 'Thank goodness William spoke to you and not me! I would have just burst into tears and that would have made him feel so guilty! But you gave him the perfect response!'

Sherlock accepted Molly's accolades gracefully and, very prudently, chose not to voice his suspicion that William probably waited to speak to his father, rather than his mother, for that very reason.

'I suppose it's not as if he's going off to University,' Molly said, philosophically. 'I mean, that's the time to worry, isn't it? We both know the sort of temptations one is exposed to in those institutions…'

'I think we have a few more years before we have to face that milestone,' Sherlock replied, with a wry smile. 'He's only eight, after all.'

'Yes,' Molly agreed, disentangling herself from Sherlock's embrace. 'And this dish washer won't load itself.'

'Well, that would be a patent worth having. We could both retire on the proceeds,' Sherlock commented.

'Alright, smart-arse,' Molly replied. 'How about you make yourself useful and put the kettle on?'

'How about I open a bottle instead?' Sherlock suggested. 'We really should celebrate William's milestone. We've celebrated all the others.'

'Drinking wine on a school night?' said Molly, with raised eyebrows.

'One small glass each won't hurt. And, anyway, I have a surprise for you.'

'What sort of surprise?' Molly asked, giving him a sideways look. 'Surprises can be both nice and nasty.'

Sherlock looked offended.

'When have I ever given you a nasty surprise?' he demanded.

'Would you like the Readers' Digest version or the full works?' she retorted.

'Load that dish washer, woman,' Sherlock replied, archly. 'I'll be in the sitting room.' He stalked out of the room, turning in the doorway to wink at her. Molly smiled, shaking her head, and resumed her task.

When she entered the sitting room, a few minutes later, she found an open bottle of Shiraz and two poured glasses sitting on the side table next to the sofa, and Sherlock standing in the dining area, concealing something behind his back.

'Take a seat,' he said.

Molly settled herself on the sofa and looked at him, expectantly. On cue, he strode forward and, with a flourish, produced a brown A4 envelope from behind his back and presented it to her. Molly took it, tentatively, and looked at the writing, wrinkling her brow when she saw the name of their family doctor.

'What…?' she began.

'My test results,' he informed her, swooping down to take one of the wine glasses before retreating to the single arm chair, where he sat rather regally, with his elbows resting on the chair arms.

Molly turned the envelope over in her hands.

'How did you…?'

'John. Used his influence to bump me up the waiting list.'

Molly frowned. John had a bit of a tendency to do that where Sherlock was concerned, despite the repeated warnings all NHS staff were given not to abuse their position on behalf of friends and family members.

'He really shouldn't…'

'I know. That's what I told him. He wasn't very happy.'

'You weren't rude, were you?'

'Of course!'

'Oh, Sherlock…'

'I'll make it up to him – find a nice dangerous case for him to assist me with.'

'You'd better apologise, too.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand. Molly turned her attention back to the envelope.

'It's addressed to the doctor.'

'I'll take it in tomorrow.'

'Have you read…?'

'No.'

'Don't you want to…?'

'I know what it says.'

Molly pursed her lips and was about to speak again when Sherlock said,

'I don't want to read it; I want you to. Please.'

With a nod of compliance, Molly peeled open the envelope and emptied the contents out into her hand then set about studying the printouts and reading the cardiologist's report.

ooOoo

 **Hope you enjoyed that fluffy episode. And heartfelt thanks, as ever, to my small but faithful band of readers.**


	23. Until Death - Chapter Twenty-Two

**Apologies for the long delay in updating. This chapter has been written and re-written so many times! I'm still not sure if I'm happy with it but I'll let you, my trusty readers, be the judge.**

 **Chapter Twenty-Two**

Sherlock watched Molly, silently appreciating the way her nose wrinkled in concentration as she studied the printout from the Holter monitor. He'd been wearing the damn thing for forty-eight hours so there would have been a lot to look at but the cardiologist had obligingly only printed a few samples of data. Tracking her eye movements across the sheets of paper and noting her subtle changes of expression, Sherlock deduced the content of the pages. Professional curiosity was all he discerned in her, so far. No pursed lips or beetled brow, nothing to alarm or disconcert.

Having completed her initial perusal of the data, Molly turned back to the first page and picked up the diary to make comparisons between the cardiac activity and Sherlock's account of what he'd been up to at the time. He frowned in anticipation of her reaction.

'Oh, Sherlock! What's this?' she exclaimed.

He shrugged, apologetically.

'It's just a little joke,' he said, lamely.

'Not a very funny one,' Molly admonished him.

'The cardiologist seemed to think it was funny,' he replied, defensively.

'I bet she did,' Molly muttered. 'Maybe she reads Russian, did you think of that?'

'It's not Russian, it's English,' Sherlock retorted. 'Just written in the Cyrillic alphabet…' he muttered, almost under his breath.

Molly remained resolutely unimpressed.

'And the black marks?'

'Redacted…obviously,' he replied, with a lop-sided grin.

'Obviously,' she replied, 'as you helpfully point out…' she read a foot note, written in English in Sherlock's spiky uppercase '… _'The contents of this document have been censored in the interests of national security_.' Hilarious, I'm sure.'

'It was just so tedious!' he groaned, petulantly, then faltering under Molly's disapproving glare, added,

'Toss it over here and I'll translate for you.'

Molly obliged by flipping the diary in his direction, whereupon he caught it, deftly, in one hand.

'Alright,' she began, reading from the printout in a business-like manner, 'Thursday: 11.34 pm.'

'I was a sleep. I haven't written anything because I was asleep. You should know that; you were there too.'

Ignoring his snitty tone, Molly flipped that page to the back of the pack and scanned the next example of unusual cardiac activity.

'Friday: 9.20 am?'

'Oh, shaving…and thinking about my Best Man's speech.'

Molly glanced across at him but he didn't meet her gaze so she returned to the handful of papers.

'Friday: 10.47 am?'

'In the cab, on the way to the aquarium…thinking about my Best Man's speech.'

Molly read on.

'Friday: 2.56 pm?'

'In the cab coming back from the aquarium…thinking about my…'

'Alright,' said Molly, recognising a pattern developing. Clearly, there was no point proceeding with that particular line of enquiry. Placing the sheets of computer printout on the sofa beside her, Molly gave Sherlock a sceptical glance and moved on to the blood test results.

'Hmm, potassium's a _tiny_ bit low. You should probably eat more bananas.'

'I don't like bananas.'

'Avocadoes, then. You like those. Mushrooms, spinach, baked potatoes, butternut squash…you like all of those.'

He couldn't argue with that.

'Hmm, your magnesium's a little low, too. We should eat more fish. I'll have a word with Marie…'

'Molly…' he groaned, accompanied by an extravagant eyeroll.

'Let's see what the cardiologist has to say,' Molly insisted, giving him an old-fashioned look before turning back to the sheaf of papers in her hand and plucking out the doctor's report with a flourish, like a rabbit from a hat. She skimmed it rapidly, reading out loud to herself.

'Yes…yes…yes, 'slightly elevated', hm…hm, 'stress-related', de…de…de 'improved diet',' Molly ticked off the major findings highlighted by the registrar.

Sherlock began to grin in his most self-satisfied manner.

Molly came to the end of the report and lowered the papers to her lap, furrowing her brow, disconcertingly.

'What?' Sherlock exclaimed, the grin fading, rapidly.

'Well, I'm no cardiologist and, to be fair, I don't generally deal with anything that has a heartbeat but your cardiologist has noted that your heart is… Hang on a minute,' she mumbled, scrabbling through the print-out pages that she had recently discarded and holding them under the lamp light to study them more carefully.

'What are you looking at?' Sherlock demanded, suddenly not so sure of himself.

'What?' Molly murmured, distractedly, still perusing the computer printout.

'Molly!'

She jumped at the sharpness of his tone but at least he had her attention, now.

'What are you looking at? What does it say?'

'It says…' Molly continued, lowering the pages to her lap, '…that your heart is perfectly healthy.'

Sherlock stared at her in astonishment.

'Molly Hooper, that was beneath you,' he huffed, indignantly.

Molly shrugged, without the slightest hint of remorse.

'Just paying you back for your rudeness to John,' she sniffed.

'With a stunt worthy of the man himself,' Sherlock snorted. 'But I think I proved my point. This has been an over-reaction and a complete waste of my time. It's just my boring body, reacting irrationally to a childhood trauma that has absolutely no relevance to my adult life. That's all there is to it.' Challenging her to dispute the veracity of that statement, he huffed like a disgruntled teenager and took a savage swig of his wine.

'Sherlock, what you are experiencing is neither boring nor irrational,' Molly insisted, dismayed but not surprised at his blatant attempt to dismiss the issue. 'The after-effects of trauma are not irrelevant and ignoring them won't make them go away. In fact, they will just get worse. This needs to be dealt with.'

'Molly, please, I'm fine,' he insisted, frowning irritably as he resorted to his default position.

Molly shook her head, sighing.

' _I'm fine, I'm fine_ ,' she mimicked, softly. 'You're always fine. That's going to be your epitaph; I'll have it carved on your head stone, you impossible man.'

Sherlock scowled and slammed his wine glass down on the occasional table.

'Alright, I accept I'm not as fine as I would like to be,' he spat, 'but this is my problem, not yours. Please, let me deal with it in my own way.'

Molly recoiled, stabbed to the heart by his aggressive manner but, even as she drew breath to retort, she looked across at her husband and saw the shutters coming down, heard the loud metallic clang of his impenetrable defences locking into place. He was only on the other side of the room but he may as well have been a hundred miles away.

She thought of the three children, sleeping peacefully upstairs, safe and secure in the love of their mother and father, and she felt a sudden and overwhelming surge of anger against two people she had never met. How could two parents treat their own child with such indifference as to cause this degree of pain, enduring long into adulthood?

Laying aside the sheaf of medical reports, Molly pushed off from the sofa and crossed the floor, eased herself into Sherlock's lap, resting her head on his shoulder. He remained impassive, scowling off into the corner of the room, his brow deeply furrowed, his body rigid and resisting, stubbornly ignoring her presence.

'I love you, Sherlock Holmes,' she whispered, her voice little more than a breath.

There was a long pause and then she felt a subtle change in his muscle tone and, with a loud exhale, he relented and wrapped his arms around her, inclining his head to rest his cheek against her brow.

'I'm sorry about the joke. It was mean,' she murmured.

'No,' he replied, 'don't apologise. I deserved it.'

She raised her chin and kissed him, engaging his gaze.

'We're a team,' she said. 'And if this is a problem, it's _our_ problem and we will solve it together.'

He pursed his lips, considering her words carefully, then nodded and tucked her head under his chin. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts for a moment. Then:

'So you're already planning my funeral?' he remarked.

'Well, one can never be too prepared for the inevitable,' she replied.

'What makes you so sure I'll be the first to go?' he asked, drawing back to fix her with an enquiring eye.

'Statistically speaking, women are longer lived than men.' Molly shrugged, '– and you're older than me to begin with. So, taking into account your rather reckless lifestyle…the balance of probability is in favour of me outliving you.'

'Hmm,' he huffed. 'Well, never one to resist a challenge, I fully intend to at least match you in terms of longevity.'

'You're not Superman,' she cautioned.

'How very astute of you to notice,' he replied.

'Well, I am a doctor, remember,' Molly pointed out.

'A doctor of the dead!'

'All the better qualified to judge! I am familiar with every cause of death known to man…or woman.'

She smiled brightly and he conceded the point with a slight inclination of the head.

'So, are we friends again?' she asked.

He let his lips do the talking.

ooOoo


	24. Until Death - Chapter Twenty-Three

**Sorry, this has been a while coming! I was so distracted by Sherlock S4, it was hard to concentrate on my own plot. But S4 has been and gone and I'm back on the case!**

 **Chapter Twenty-Three**

Mycroft Holmes - relaxing in the red leather wing chair beside the empty fireplace, in the sitting room of his Cadogan Square apartment - heard the mantel clock chime twelve times.

Midnight.

This was going to be a long vigil.

He had considered going to bed but knew, from past experience, that he would not sleep and, anyway, this was official business and he preferred to be appropriately dressed – in his signature three-piece suit, tailored shirt, silk tie and handmade shoes – even though no one was present to attest to the fact.

Earlier in the evening, he had talked with the children via Skype, read them a bedtime story and blown them 'good night' kisses. Later, he had spoken on the phone to Arthur, shared the news of their respective days and exchanged intimacies. The residents of Colbert House would now be tucked up in their beds, secure in the knowledge that the safety of the nation was in good hands – Mycroft's hands.

Tonight's work was a complex operation, involving close co-operation between the Rotterdam Port Authority and Border Force, their counterparts in Felixstowe, the Essex Police Force and MI5, overseen and co-ordinated by Mycroft's own department.

First, they had to identify the vehicle in which the contraband, whatever that might be - and the possibilities were many and various - was being transported, but without alerting the smugglers to that fact. Presumably, they had used this route before and done so without detection, so their method must be resilient to the usual boarder checks. A different approach was required but, having identified the suspect vehicle, it must still be allowed to board the ferry at Rotterdam.

Next, they must track the vehicle from the ferry terminal at Felixstowe to the rendezvous with Needham, again, without detection. And, once the vehicle reached the rendezvous, they must observe at a safe distance until the goods had been handed over and transferred to Needham's vehicle, before moving in and apprehending all the culprits.

On paper, it was straightforward enough but, in practice, so many things could go wrong. If the smugglers clocked that they had been rumbled, at any point in the operation, they might abandon the shipment, try to make a run for it or decide to stand and fight. All of these eventualities were potentially catastrophic and must be avoided at nearly all costs.

If the vehicle was mislaid somewhere between Felixstowe and the rendezvous point, the contraband would be absorbed into the UK black market and Mycroft would have egg on his face.

If the officers lying in wait at Manningtree railway station were detected or acted precipitously, Needham's involvement might be hard to prove. If they moved in too late, the smugglers might escape and live to smuggle another day, though Needham might be persuaded to turn Queen's evidence. But the fallout of a botched job could potentially be ruinous for both Mycroft, personally, and his entire department.

Nothing must go wrong.

Mycroft had complete faith in his own people. They were hand-picked, tried and tested. It was the involvement of the other agencies that concerned him, most especially the personel of the Essex Police Force. Mycroft had no way of knowing how reliable or experienced these officers were. For that reason, he had embedded his most trusted agent within that part of the operation – his right-hand man, Anthea Smith.

 _At nine p.m., Anthea called to confirm that the ferry from Rotterdam had sailed._

' _There are five hazardous waste vehicles being carried on the ferry, all returning empty, having exported hazardous waste to other EU countries,' she advised him._

' _Which countries?' asked Mycroft._

' _Poland, Czech Republic, Lithuania and Germany.'_

' _Anything suspicious?'_

' _All the paperwork is in order. The Dutch Border Force did the usual inspections of the vehicles, so as not to arouse any suspicion. All the vehicles passed.'_

' _Surveillance?'_

' _All being monitored by CCTV during the voyage.'_

' _Tracking devices?'_

' _All five vehicles have been fitted with tracking devices.'_

' _Thank you, my dear.'_

When the ferry docked and the five vehicles began the UK leg of their journeys, they would all be tracked and closely monitored until they reached their final destinations, a 'belt and braces' insurance policy to cover all eventualities, including a double bluff on the part of the smugglers.

So now Mycroft had simply to wait. The stage was set, the actors were all in their starting positions and the curtain was about to rise. He took a sip of the Lagavulin and was just contemplating what music he would select to accompany his long night when his phone rang again. It was Agent Osman.

'Needham is on the move,' he announced, succinctly.

'Thank you,' Mycroft replied. 'Keep me informed.'

ooOoo

Bryan Needham, a petty criminal with ambitions to raise his profile, hopped on board an ancient – stolen – push bike and set off on the four-mile journey to the industrial estate where the 'get-away vehicle' was kept in a lock-up garage. He wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of cycling four miles. He wasn't the fittest of persons – his twenty-a-day smoking habit, not to mention a rather unhealthy appetite for Tennent's Extra Strong lager and a high-cholesterol diet, made sure of that – so cycling was definitely not his forte.

He had argued the toss with his 'handler' that he should be provided with motorised transport, even if it were only an electric bicycle, but his demands had been met with derision.

'Think of it as a fitness regime, ya fat, lazy bastard!' Wilshaw hooted.

So, it was with a distinct lack of enthusiasm which even the thrill of 'playing with the big boys' could not counter, that Needham pedalled off along the dark country lanes, huffing and puffing like an geriatric steam train, blissfully unaware that his slow, laborious progress was being tracked every tortuous yard by Agent Osman, via the phone the 'big boys' had provided for their new recruit.

ooOoo

Manningtree railway station, though situated in the back of beyond, was a busy commuter hub with trains running every hour to London. Hence the very generous car park which, beginning around six in the morning each week day, gradually filled up and remained full all day until approximately four in the afternoon, when the daily migrants began to return and reclaim their vehicles. By seven in the evening, the car park was more or less deserted.

When the last train of the day stopped at Manningtree Station, all was quiet and still. A single passenger disembarked. At this time of night, Manningtree was unmanned and, a few minutes after the last train had departed, the platform and car park lights would switch off automatically - a money-saving measure - so the lone passenger had a limited amount of time to clear the station before being plunged into darkness. But instead of making her way to the car park, the woman with the long auburn hair crossed over to the locked Ticket Hall and let herself in.

Anthea Smith closed the Ticket Hall door firmly behind her, conducted a quick survey of the accommodation, checking her sight lines of both the station platform and the car park itself, then sat down on one of the wooden benches and, taking out her Blackberry, sent a text:

 _In situ_.

ooOoo

Approaching half past midnight, Bryan Needham wobbled up to the up and over door of the lock-up garage on the industrial estate and, quite literally, toppled off the bicycle. The leg that he put down to support his weight buckled at the knee and he crashed to the ground, with the bike still positioned between his lower limbs. The consequent impact to his nether regions knocked out of him what little air was left following his unaccustomed exertions, and he lay on the muddy ground for several minutes, groaning and gasping, unable to rise.

Eventually, he managed to sit up and free his legs from the bicycle frame, which he sent spinning away from him, across the ground, with a malicious kick. He climbed to his feet and attempted to dust himself off but only succeeded in spreading the mud that had caked his jacket sleeve and trouser leg to places it had not been before. Then he retrieved the bicycle and moved it out of the way, so that he could open the garage door, using the key that Wilshaw had provided.

The door opened with a loud metallic screech of unoiled hinges and revealed the white Ford Transit van hidden inside the garage. With a sigh of relief, Needham unlocked the driver's door and climbed inside. The engine started at the second attempt and he reversed the vehicle out into the cold night air. Taking time out to place the bike inside the garage and re-lock the door, Needham got back in the van, gunned the engine and set off for his ultimate destination – Manningtree Station in the county of Essex.

ooOoo

To a casual observer, the only activity within a square mile of the country station was the local wildlife – the mice and voles that scurried around on the tracks, between the metal rails; the tawny owls which sat in the branches of nearby trees, watching and listening for the tell-tale signs that their supper was on the move. But appearances can be deceptive.

Two miles down the line, a black transit van pulled into a deserted layby. The side door slid open and, one by one, the members of a Special Ops team jumped out, all dressed in black from head to toe, wearing night vision goggles and carrying assault rifles. Two strides from the vehicle, they passed through a narrow gap in the hedge and slid down a wooded embankment to the railway line below, where they formed into a troop and set off, jogging along the track towards Manningtree Station.

Twenty minutes later, as they approached the extreme end of the station platform, they slowed to a walk then peeled off to the left, mounting the hedge bank at a stealthy crouch, climbing over the fence and fanning out around the perimeter of the station car park. Once in position, they each hunkered down and froze, hidden in the undergrowth, invisible to the naked eye.

ooOoo

Shortly after three o'clock on Thursday morning, Anthea's phone vibrated in her hand. She opened the text message. The ferry from Rotterdam had docked and all the suspect vehicles had disembarked and commenced their onward journeys, along Grove Road and onto the A14 towards Ipswich. As this was the only major route from the ferry port, this was unsurprising. Anthea acknowledged the text and closed her phone.

Moments later, her Blackberry vibrated again and the text informed her that Needham and his tell-tale telephone was just minutes away from the station. Anthea stood up and crossed to the rear wall of the waiting room, which over-looked the car park. Out there, in the pitch darkness, she knew there was a Special Ops Unit, lying in wait.

Anthea watched through a small window as headlights approached and briefly illuminated the area as it drove to the far end of the car park and came to a halt. The engine died, and the headlights with it, then the off-side door opened, switching on the interior light which revealed the driver to be Needham. He climbed out, closed the door and stood leaning on the side of the van as he lit a cigarette.

 _The man was a complete amateur_ , thought Anthea. He had parked in a very prominent position, visible from the road, at a station that was closed for the night, he had shown his face via the internal light of the vehicle and he would, no doubt, drop his cigarette butt on the floor, providing DNA evidence to back up the GPS evidence from his phone that he had been here. The fact that he was being filmed by an infra-red camera trap, concealed in the bushes, was a bonus. _Someone this stupid deserved to be caught_.

ooOoo

Where the A14 met the A12, one of the tankers turned North, making it unlikely to be the target vehicle. The remaining four continued along the A14 until one turned off onto the A1189 and effectively eliminated itself from the enquiry, leaving just three possible targets. A few miles further on, at Junction 56, one of the tankers took the first exit off the roundabout, onto the A137, confirming that this was their prime target. A timely text informed Anthea of the latest development and she retreated from the window and sent a text of her own, signalling to everyone in the Special Ops unit to assume Battle Stations.

The Game was on.

ooOoo

Bryan Needham finished his third cigarette and flicked away the butt, stamping his feet in a comical jig - a vain attempt to keep warm. Where was that bloody tanker? He pulled out his phone to check for any messages he might have missed but there were none. He was contemplating ringing Wilshaw, his handler, but the distant sound of a diesel engine caught his attention. Gradually, the sound grew louder and, at last, he saw the approaching flicker of twin beams, though the bare branches and twigs of the hedgerow that bordered the road.

The hazardous waste tanker reached the entrance to the station car park and, with a loud roar of its engine as it dropped into a low gear, it swung through the gate way and rumbled across the car park coming to a shuddering halt with a loud hiss of air breaks.

'Watcha, mate!' Needham exclaimed, as the cab door swung open and the driver climbed down to the ground. 'Good trip?' he added, grinning.

'Shut yer mouth an' open yer wagon,' growled the new-comer then reached into his jacket pocket, took out a head torch, pulled it over his rather large pate and stomped off to the back of the tanker, switching on the beam as he went. He climbed the fixed ladder, up onto the top of tank. Needham, rather put out by the man's brusqueness but fascinated by his behaviour, watched eagerly as his new acquaintance turned the wheel that unlocked the inspection hatch on top of the tank and lifted the heavy metal cap. With the tank now exposed to the night air, the driver stuck his head into the opening and barked,

'Right, come on, you lot! Out!'

ooOoo


	25. Until Death - Chapter Twenty-Four

**References** **to human trafficking and modern day slavery in this chapter, folks, but nothing explicit or graphic.**

 **Chapter Twenty-Four**

Mycroft Holmes stepped from the vintage lift, pulled the folding metal door closed and strolled along the corridor toward his office. Entering the anti-room, he was surprised to find his PA, Anthea Smith, sitting at her desk.

'Oh, good morning, my dear! I wasn't expecting to see you, so early this morning,' he declared.

Anthea returned his greeting with a smile.

'I thought I'd write up my report of last night's operation and get my debriefing over and done, since I'm off on annual leave from tomorrow,' she replied.

'Of course,' Mycroft nodded. Anthea had chosen to take her annual leave to coincide with his honeymoon so that she didn't have to put up with working under his deputy. The last time that had happened, things had not gone well.

'I'll bring you your morning tea, sir' said Anthea, beginning to rise form her desk but Mycroft extended his hand and said,

'No, please. You finish your report. I can make my own tea and one for you, too. Then we'll get your debriefing out of the way and you can be done for the day.'

Mycroft continued on, into his office, deposited his briefcase and umbrella then retraced his steps down the corridor to the little staff kitchen where he busied himself making a pot of his favourite morning tea and setting up a tray for two. By the time he returned, Anthea was standing at the printer, watching her report emerge one sheet at a time from the machine. Gathering all the sheets together, she followed her boss into his office and they both sat down in the green leather wing chairs.

As the tea brewed, Mycroft leafed through Anthea's report. He was already au fait with the events of the early hours of that morning, having been brought up to speed earlier by Agent Osman, but once the beverage was poured and the china cup and saucer in his hand, he settled back to hear Anthea's first-hand account, from her point of view.

'As soon as the true nature of the consignment became obvious, the priority for the operation changed from one of arrest to one of rescue and it was immediately apparent that the original plan of action was inappropriate,' Anthea began. 'The safety of the women was paramount but it couldn't be guaranteed in the presence of the tanker driver.'

'Why so?' Mycroft asked.

'His attitude to the women was aggressive and abusive,' Anthea explained. 'I had the advantage of night vision goggles so could see clearly in the dark but for the women climbing out of the tanker, it would have been virtually pitch black, out in the car park. The tanker driver, who was wearing a head torch, was yelling at the women and, as each one emerged from the inspection hatch, he pushed them towards the ladder at the back of the vehicle, showing absolutely no consideration for their lack of vision or any concern for their safety, despite the fact that they were shouting and screaming, obviously panicking.'

'In what language?' Mycroft enquired, assuming quite rightly that the women were not British.

'Predominantly Russian but I discerned some Chechen and also some Crimean Tatar,' Anthea replied and Mycroft nodded, inviting her to continue her account.

'So, I instructed the Special Ops Unit to sit tight until the tanker driver was at a safe distance from the women.'

'How did you intend to achieve that?' Mycroft interjected again.

'I determined that, if the tanker departed the scene first, it could be tracked using the on-board tracker and stopped by a road block some distance away. If the van carrying the women departed first, it could be tracked using Needham's phone and intercepted en route to the safe house and the tanker and its driver could be detained in the car park.'

'So, you didn't consider Needham to be a threat to the women?'

'No, sir, I did not. Needham, to give him his due, seemed as surprised as I was at the nature of the cargo. He was shocked. And, although he had no head torch either, he did assist the women as they came down the ladder and directed them quite courteously toward the van.'

'Very well,' Mycroft nodded. 'Please, do continue.'

'The tanker driver was in no mood to hang around. As soon as the last woman was out of the vehicle, he jumped back in the cab and flew the coop. He nearly took out a lamp post executing a three-point turn, he was in such a hurry. But Agent Osman was on the case. As soon as we knew which route the tanker was taking, he organised a road block through the local police and they pulled him after four miles. The driver was arrested and the tanker impounded. It's being examined by Home Office Forensic scientists, as we speak.'

'And the women? What happened to them?'

Anthea sipped her tea, took a breath and said,

'Well, sir, we have been referring to them as 'women' but in actual fact…'

 _As the red tail lights of the tanker disappeared into the night and the dull roar of the engine receded with it, Bryan Needham sat at the wheel of the Transit van in a sort of stupor, wondering what the hell he had got himself into. When he volunteered for this jolly jaunt, he'd imagined the booty to be a load of illegally imported cigarettes or booze, some Class A drugs, perhaps, maybe even guns…but women? That was the last thing he'd expected. And he was beginning to realise that he'd bitten off a whole lot more than he was inclined to chew. People trafficking was not an activity he had ever imagined featuring on his Bucket List._

 _His normally rather torpid thought processes were doing their version of racing, reviewing what his options might be – other than actually carrying out the task he had been assigned. He was petrified at the prospect of letting the 'big boys' down but even more afraid of the possible consequences of being involved in the transport of illegal immigrants._

 _His brain was not really up to this task. The toughest decision he usually had to make was whether to go for a piss before or after downing his next pint of beer. So he continued to sit motionless in the darkened cab of the Transit van, wearing a dazed expression that nobody could see…_

 _Nobody, that is, but the members of the Special Ops unit who were in the process of surrounding the van, guns held at the ready, pointing straight at driver. The first hint the target had that anything might be amiss was when the car park lights suddenly burst into life and flooded the scene with bright illumination._

 _Bryan Needham looked around at the circle of figures all dressed from head to toe in black, looking as menacing as it was possible to look, and chose to surrender. Raising both hands to somewhere up near his ears, he starred at the man – or woman, it was impossible to tell – standing just three feet in front of his windscreen and gave an inane grin._

 _Without warning, the driver's side door was wrenched open and a gruff voice ordered him to get out of the cab, keeping his hands in plain sight. Needham was more than happy to comply. Being busted here at the rendezvous point was the best possible scenario, so far as he was concerned. He could declare, in all honesty, that he had no idea of the nature of the cargo until they began to climb out of the inspection hatch, and he would happily tell all he knew about the rest of the gang – which was precious little, in fact – in exchange for a shortened term in an open prison where his erstwhile chums were very unlikely to pop up any time soon._

 _Needham slithered awkwardly out of the cab, manoeuvring his over-weight body with some difficulty, without the use of his hands which were still hovering up around his ears. As soon as both his feet were on the ground, a powerful hand grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around and pushed him up against the side of the van._

 _'Awright! Awright! I ain't pacckin'!' he squarked._

 _'Shut up!' was the curt response. And he did._

 _Needham stood submissively while the Special Ops officer patted him down very thoroughly, removing his phone, wallet and a pack of cigarettes. Then, h_ _aving been spun back around to face his assailant, he was dragged across the tarmac towards a large black minibus that had driven into the car park whilst he was otherwise occupied, being frisked. He was pushed up the steps into the vehicle and shoved along to the back of the bus. The officer stood opposite him, in the narrow gap between the seats, holding his assault rifle aimed at Needham's chest, and growled,_

' _Take your clothes off!'_

 _Anthea Smith stepped through the door of the station Ticket Hall cum Waiting Room and walked to the back of the white van, ignoring what was going on with Needham in the black bus. She asked the two officers standing behind the van to lower their weapons so as not to alarm the occupants of the vehicle, whom she knew were already pretty alarmed._

 _Before opening the rear doors, she called out,_

 _' Дамы, я имею в виду вы никакого вреда. Вы совершенно безопасно, мы здесь для того, чтобы спасти вас.'_

 _She then nodded to one of the officers who slowly, carefully, opened the van doors revealing the women inside._ _They were all huddled together on the bare metal floor, nine dishevelled individuals with gaunt faces and round, fearful eyes. They looked from Anthea to the two Special Ops officers standing either side of her and then back to Anthea._

' _Кто-нибудь говорит Английский?' she asked, firmly but calmly, holding up both hands in a reassuring gesture._

 _There was a brief pause and then one of the women raised a tentative hand and said,_

' _I do, madame.'_

 _Anthea smiled with relief. She had just about exhausted her rusty Russian. There hadn't been much call for it in the Middle East and_ ' _Ladies, I mean you no harm. You're perfectly safe, we are here to rescue you,'_ _and_ ' _Does anyone speak English?'_ _was about all she could cobble together from her distant memories of A-level Modern Languages - and she couldn't be completely sure she had gotten that right._

' _What's your name?' she asked the spokesperson._

' _Darya', the young woman answered._

' _Darya, my name is Anthea,' she said gently. 'Please tell your friends that they are safe now. We are going to take good care of you all.'_

 _With the assistance of six of the SO officers, Anthea escorted the women to the station waiting room, where it was warm and dry and there were comfortable chairs to sit on. It was here that she got her first really good look at them and it was immediately obvious that at least three of the group were barely into their teens – fifteen years old at best – and the oldest was probably only twenty-five._

 _Darya confirmed that they'd had nothing to eat or drink for several hours, and they were all showing signs of dehydration. Anthea was concerned they might be hypothermic,too, after their terrifying ordeal inside that tanker, not to mention in danger of going into shock, so she instructed the SO operatives to boost their blood sugar, keep them warm and keep them calm. She then got onto the Emergency Services and summoned paramedics to the scene, whilst the SO officers raided the station vending machines to supply the ladies with snacks and drinks._

 _Meanwhile, out in the car park, the other half of the SO unit was boarding the white van with one of their number, having exchanged outer garments with Bryan Needham, about to fulfil his mission by driving to the safe house, in order to apprehend whoever might be there, waiting to receive the trafficked women. Needham had very helpfully input the address and post code of the safe house to his phone navigation app, so locating it would not be a problem. As soon as they were all on board, the van departed._

'And that part of the operation was successfully completed?' asked Mycroft.

'Yes, sir,' Anthea confirmed. 'The local police rendezvoused with the team at the location and were able to assist the SO unit in securing the house. All the occupants were taken into custody and the house is being forensically examined now. Several laptops, smart phones and tablets have been removed for analysis. Essex Police are dealing with that side of things and rounding up the rest of the gang.'

'And the females?'

'They were all taken to a local hospital to be checked over. Social Services and the immigration authorities are dealing with them. I understand that some of the ladies have chosen to claim asylum here, on the grounds that if they return to their home countries they will be vulnerable to revenge attacks by the traffickers who sent them here. The younger ones just want to go back to their families.'

'Assuming that it wasn't their own families who sold them to the traffickers,' Mycroft posited, with a frown.

'It would appear not,' Anthea replied. 'The girls' families thought they were coming to the UK legitimately, as students, to attend an English Language school. Their parents, it seems, registered the girls through a fake online agency and paid the fees and travel costs up front.'

Unusually for him, Mycroft was quite taken aback by Anthea's revelations. It would seem that, quite inadvertently, he had stumbled across a major people trafficking and modern day slavery operation. All thanks to Bryan Needham and his homophobic tendencies.

'And our dear friend, Mr Needham?' Mycroft asked.

'In the custody of Essex Police and being extremely helpful, by all accounts.'

'Well, my dear,' said Mycroft, with a satisfied smile, 'I relish reading your written report. Take yourself home, now, and catch up on your sleep. As you know, I won't be in the office tomorrow but I look forward to welcoming you and Inspector Lestrade to my home on Saturday.'

Yes, this little caper had been successfully wrapped up just in time for Mycroft and Arthur's Big Day.

ooOoo

 **Yes, folks, we're nearly there! Gotta wedding to plan!**


	26. Until Death - Chapter Twenty-Five

**Fluff-fest alert!**

 **Chapter Twenty-Five**

It was to be a long and very busy day in Colbert House. With just two days to go before the wedding, Mycroft was more than happy to leave the final preparations to his team of staff. The house had been registered as a wedding venue for several years and had hosted many such events during that time, not to mention the numerous conferences and seminars they had staged with efficiency and consummate professionalism. But this event was just a little more special since it was the wedding of the master of the house and, consequently, the staff were more determined than ever to ensure that the event went off without any hitches.

Mycroft's day – and that of his fiancé, Arthur – would be spent welcoming and entertaining the guests who were invited for the whole weekend, namely Arthur's family.

Mycroft had met one of Arthur's relations, his sister Josie, the year before, following Arthur's abduction and false imprisonment at the hands of the extreme right-wing paramilitary organisation, Combat 18. That meeting had been under very difficult circumstances but Mycroft had found Josie Brocklehurst quite disarming. He was looking forward to meeting her again, in a more pleasant situation. He hoped she had given him a positive review when reporting back to the rest of the family.

Arthur was also looking forward to introducing Mycroft to the other family members, especially his mother who he was delighted to hear had accepted the wedding invitation, despite his father insistence that she boycott the event, as he had chosen to do.

Arthur had always known that his father would find it difficult – no, impossible – to accept his sexuality, which was why he hadn't 'come out' to his family before. He was confident that his mother and sisters would accept and embrace the fact that he was gay but he didn't want to put any of them in the invidious position of having to keep such a huge secret from the head of the family. Had Arthur Senior discovered that anyone in the family knew about his son's sexual orientation and hadn't shared that information with him, his anger toward that unfortunate person would have been as great as his anger toward Arthur himself. So Arthur had kept shtum.

But even Arthur was not prepared for the lengths Arthur Senior would be prepared go to, once he found out that his only son was gay. Even allowing for all the contributing factors, Mr Brocklehurst's reaction was pretty extreme. And Arthur had found it difficult to forgive his father for what he had done. But, for the sake of family unity, he had gone up to Stalybridge, just before Christmas, to extend the olive branch and invite the whole family – father included - to his wedding.

Sadly, Arthur Senior was not interested in a reconciliation. When Arthur turned up at the family home, he was not allowed in, not even to see his mother. He returned to Hertfordshire disappointed.

However, that level of intransigence on her husband's part was the final straw for Mrs Brocklehurst who had stood by her spouse through thick and thin for nearly forty years. She packed her bags and left, moving in with Rosie and her family, who were more than happy to have her. Mr Brocklehurst found himself estranged from the whole family and spending Christmas alone for the first time ever.

Arthur hoped that, over time, his father might come around, so they could all be a family again but, in the meantime, he was delighted – and a little nervous - to welcome his relatives to the grand country house that had become his home.

Having made the journey by train from Stalybridge, Arthur's family were collected by cars from the local station and brought up to the house. As the small convoy turned into through the gateway to Colbert House and made its way up the curved drive, Rosie looked out of the lead car window and said,

'Oh, my good night! Is that where our Arthur lives? Bloody hell! It looks like a bleedin' stately home!'

'Language, Rosie!' her husband Jim admonished. 'The children…'

'Oh, shut yer ears, kids! There's a time and a place when bad language is perfectly justified – and this is it!'

'You won't be saying that when we get a letter from the school, after one of the boys comes out with something similar,' Jim warned but Rosie was too preoccupied to hear a word, taking in the finer details of Colbert House's impressive façade, and the two boys, eight-year-old Josh and six-year-old Jack, were giggling hysterically at Mummy's 'naughty words'. Jim rolled his eyes and gave up trying to preserve family decorum.

In the second car, Arthur's mum and other sister, Rosie, were equally impressed with the grandeur of Colbert House.

'Is that a hotel, Josie? I didn't know we were staying in a hotel. I thought we were staying at Arthur's house,' said Frances Brocklehurst, feeling most perplexed.

'That is Arthur's house, Mum,' Josie replied, taking her mother's hand to reassure her. 'It's Mycroft's ancestral home, remember? His family have lived here for hundreds of years. You know, like Mr Darcy and Pemberley.'

'Oh, my,' wailed Mrs Brocklehurst. 'I didn't expect it to be this posh! Oh, dear! I'm not sure about this, our Josie. I don't think I should be here.'

'Mum, it's OK! He's still our Arthur. He hasn't changed, just 'cos he lives here instead of in a council house in Stalybridge. And Mycroft is a real gentleman. He'll go out of his way to make us feel at home, I'm sure of it.'

'It's alright for you to talk, our Josie,' Arthur's mother exclaimed. 'You're Management. You know how to behave in such places. The only time I've been to a place like this was when our Rosie took us to Tatton Park for the day. And at least all the places you weren't supposed to go were roped off! What if I wander into the throne room by accident?'

Josie couldn't help laughing, try as she might to resist.

'Oh, Mum! It's not Buckingham Palace! I'm sure there won't be any throne rooms here!'

If there were, they were about to find out. The cars reached the top of the drive and, circling the on gravel forecourt, came to a halt in front of the great house, and the vehicles' occupants were both relieved and delighted to see Arthur and another man, tall, dark and regal-looking, striding towards them, both smiling broadly and extending welcoming hands to help them all out of the cars.

'Hiya, Mum!' exclaimed Arthur, grinning from ear to ear and giving his mother a big hug. 'This,' he announced, proudly, 'is my fiancé – soon to be husband – Mycroft!'

Mycroft offered his hand to his nearly-mother-in-law and inclined his head, respectfully.

'Mrs Brocklehurst,' he said, 'I am delighted to meet you, at last. Welcome to our home.'

Frances Brocklehurst took Mycroft's hand and grimaced, apprehensively, as Josie looked on with a wry grin. This weekend was going to be a very steep learning curve for all the family but she was sure Mycroft and Arthur would make it as easy a process as possible.

'Where are the children?' Frances enquired, reaching for more familiar ground.

'Oh, they're at school, Mum. It's the last day before half term. We're trying to keep things as normal as possible – especially for Charlie, who gets very excited very easily - so we insisted they go. But they'll be home soon and you'll be able to meet them. They can't wait to meet you!'

Arthur's mum smiled, happily. The feeling was entirely mutual.

ooOoo

Sherlock stepped from the black cab and strode across the road, weaving between the stationary rush hour traffic. It was Friday afternoon and the schools were breaking up for half term so the occupants of the nation's capital were keen to make a quick getaway to green fields and pastures new – for the holiday week, at least. But with everyone having the same idea, the Friday rush hour grid lock was even worse than usual so Sherlock opted to abandon his cab and complete his journey on foot.

He arrived at the entrance to St Paul's Choir School and joined the growing group of parents and carers, waiting for the school day to end and their charges to emerge from their respective classrooms. Half Terms and holidays always came with luggage – Games kits, musical instruments, art work and the like – so it had fallen to Sherlock to collect William and Freddie and their extra baggage and bring them home by cab. But that wasn't the only reason why he always collected the boys on the last day before a holiday.

Sherlock's own memories of such occasions invariably consisted of being driven home by the family chauffeur who, although always courteous and friendly, didn't greet him with hugs and kisses, like the parents of the other boys in his house did their charges. Daddy was always away on some diplomatic mission and Mummy was always too busy with her charity work and social commitments to spare the time to collect him or his brother from school. Occasionally, Mycroft had deputised for the absent parents but he wasn't too hot on hugs and kisses either.

On one occasion, Sherlock remembered, Matron had refused to allow the chauffeur to take him home because his mother had failed to send the required notification that someone other than a relative would be collecting him. There had been a bit of a stand-off between the two women, as Matron stuck to the letter of the school rule and Mrs Holmes baulked at having to conform. But, eventually, Matron won and Mummy had to fax a signed document authorising the chauffeur to be 'in loco parentis'.

Sherlock had rather admired Matron for standing up to his mother. Not many people dared and very few who did lived to tell the tale. And Mrs Holmes never omitted to sign and return the permission slip again.

When the flood gates opened and the children began to appear, Sherlock put away his mobile phone, that he had been hiding behind in order to avoid having to engage in social pleasantries with the other adults, and used his height advantage to scan the streams of emerging children, looking for his own offspring. The first one he spotted was William.

William saw his father at the same moment and he broke into a broad grin as he pushed his way through the crowd in Sherlock's direction.

'Daddy!' he squealed, dumping his violin case, kit bag, art folder and backpack on the ground and jumping into his father's open arms. They exchanged greetings and brief comments about their respective days then Sherlock stood upright once more, scanning for Freddie in the crowd.

Eventually he did appear but the moment Sherlock saw him he knew that something was wrong. Freddie's shoulders were drooping, his feet dragged, his head was bowed and there was no broad grin on his face.

'Wait here, Will,' said Sherlock and he dodged through the thinning crowd, in Freddie's direction.

'Freddie? What's the matter?' he asked, crouching down to the child's level.

That was all it took. Freddie's face crumpled and the tears, that had been threatening, gushed out and poured down his apple cheeks, to be quickly accompanied by twin streams of mucus from his nostrils, as he gave full vent to his pent-up emotions.

Sherlock gathered Freddie up and hugged him tight. It was such a rare sight to see Freddie even mildly discomforted that this level of distress was truly alarming. Even the other parents, nearby, were shocked and concerned to see the usually sunny-natured boy so upset. They all stood around, ooh-ing and ah-ing, while Sherlock rocked and shushed and Freddie howled over his shoulder.

After several moments, the flood abated a little and Freddie was able to sit up in the crook of his father's elbow, though still wracked with heaving sobs.

'Mu-Mu-Morgan's…gu-gu-gu-gone,' he hiccuped, barely able to catch his breath between the spasms in his chest.

Sherlock used the end of his scarf to wipe the tears and snot from Freddie's blotchy face, until another parent kindly pressed a bunch of tissues into his hand. He and Molly had talked to Freddie about his best friend leaving the school so he had been forewarned of this momentous event in his young life but, obviously, nothing could have prepared the four-year-old for the reality of saying goodbye to his school friend for the last time.

'You will still see him, Freddie,' Sherlock soothed, 'at his house and our house.'

'Yu-yes, Daddy, but not at su-su-su-school,' Freddie replied, quite bereft.

By this time, William had come over to join the little group and Freddie's teacher, Miss Trimble, appeared in front of Sherlock, looking very concerned.

'Poor Freddie,' she moued. 'He's been holding up so well, under the circumstances, but this morning Morgan was called onto the stage in Assembly and given a leaving present and then this afternoon we had a little party for him, just in the classroom, and I think the reality finally hit home.'

Sherlock nodded, feeling mortified and completely inadequate as a parent. They really should have seen this coming.

In the meantime, word had spread like wildfire in the small, tight-knit school community that little ray of sunshine, Freddie Hooper-Holmes, was having some sort of emotional meltdown and, the next minute, the Headmaster Dr Braintree hove into view, accompanied by that interfering busy-body, Mrs Weston, the SENCO. The last thing Sherlock wanted was to have to listen to her pontificating on the situation, so his sole objective right at that moment was to get Freddie and William off school premises, into a cab and on their way back home.

He and William gathered up Freddie and all the baggage, thanked everyone for their concern and departed before Braintree and Weston could get close enough to detain them. Out on the pavement, Sherlock looked around and spotted a cab with its 'For Hire' sign lit. He waved his arm and strode in that direction, with William jogging alongside. They climbed into the cab, Sherlock gave the address and they settled themselves in for the long and tedious journey home. With the traffic almost at a stand-still, it was likely to take some time.

OoOoo

On the journey home, Freddie managed a few wan smiles, as Sherlock and William drew his attention to amusing things going on outside the cab – such as a cyclist being knocked flying when the passenger door, to a cab they were overtaking on the blind side, suddenly flew open and the frustrated occupant jumped out, expounding that they could 'bloody walk faster' than the cab was moving. When both men collided and ended up in a tangled heap on the pavement, even Freddie couldn't suppress a breathy chuckle.

By the time they arrived home, Freddie had more or less recovered from the initial shock of the true finality of Morgan's departure from St Paul's. Except for the occasional shuddering sigh, his breathing had returned to normal and the tears were mere stains on his rather more than usually rosy cheeks. The Holmes's climbed from the cab, along with all their bags and baggage and hauled it all up the garden path, depositing it in a heap, outside the front door.

'Can I go and talk to my bees, please, Daddy?' William asked.

'Of course,' Sherlock replied. 'Off you go!'

Opening the front door, Sherlock bent down and gathered up all the school bags and other detritus and brought them inside.

Hearing the front door open and seeing William's shadow race past, outside the kitchen window, Violet began yelling at the top of her voice, demanding to be released from the playpen so she could greet her daddy and brother. Marie obliged, lifting her out of the lobster-pot pen and depositing her on the floor. Seconds later, as Sherlock helped Freddie out of his outdoor clothing in the front hall, Violet appeared, scuttling on all fours and shrieking with delight.

'He'yo, Ada! We is home!' Freddie announced. 'Hab you hab a lubberly day?'

Violet's giggle confirmed that she had and she raised her arms, demanding to be picked up by Daddy.

'Are you OK, Freddie?' Sherlock asked, with concern, as he scooped his daughter up off the hall floor and kissed her cheek.

'Yes, Daddy, I awight now, fantoo,' Freddie smiled, bravely. His best friend might have left school that day but Ada was always game for a bit of fun and he was sure he could detect the tell-tale aroma of baking. The nanny, he thought, might just have made some scones!

'Sall we see what Mawie hab been cooking?' he suggested and led the way into the warm, welcoming kitchen.

William ran down the side of the house, heading for the back garden and his bee hive. He always chatted with his bees in the evening, when he arrived home from school. It would be dark soon and he had an awful lot to talk about so he raced down to the bottom of the garden, where his bee hive stood under the apple trees – their branches as bare as bones this February afternoon.

'Hello, bees! Sorry I'm late. The traffic was terrible because everyone is going away for the half term holiday,' he began, breathlessly. 'I'm going away, too, but not until tomorrow. We are all going to Uncle Mycroft's house, in the country, because him and Uncle Arthur are getting married on Sunday.

We are all really happy about that…well, nearly all of us. Daddy is a bit not happy because he's got to make a speech and say nice things about Uncle Mycroft. That isn't that difficult because Uncle Mycroft is really nice. But Daddy hasn't always liked Uncle Mycroft very much and I think that's why he's a bit not happy. I expect he's worried he might say the wrong thing.

But Mummy's been helping Daddy to write his speech and she's very good at saying nice things about people. Mummy says we all do things we're not proud of and it's not always easy to say sorry for the bad things so sometimes it's better to just not talk about them but try to be nicer in the future. I think she's probably right.

Mummy's given Daddy an elastic band to put on his wrist while he's doing his speech. She says that if he gets worried about anything he just has to snap the elastic band against his skin and it will make him feel better. I'm not sure if that's true, to be honest, because I tried it on my wrist and it really hurt!

But Mummy would never make anybody do something that might hurt them so I think I might have been doing it wrong.

Mummy is always kind. That's why Daddy loves her.'

William paused in his soliloquy to his attentive apis audience, while he thought back over his day, wondering if there was anything important that he had left out.

'Oh, yes… Freddie's best friend, Morgan, left our school today to go to another school. Freddie's very sad. I can understand why. I would be very sad if you went away because you bees are my best friends,' he said, earnestly. 'I've got lots of other friends, at school, but they are ordinary friends, not best ones. You are my best ones.' He nodded, just to assure the bees that this was the absolute truth.

'Anyway, we're coming home on Wednesday but Mr Hedges will be looking after you while I'm away. You like Mr Hedges. He's very kind – like Mummy, but in an old person sort of way. He doesn't do smiles and cuddles like Mummy does, he just nods and says, 'Aye, that's right!' which is very helpful because I'm only just learning about how to look after you and it's important to know I got it right.

Daddy is kind, too,; he added, as an after-thought. 'But he sometimes likes to pretend he isn't, especially to bad people.'

Having brought the occupants of the beehive up to speed with everything that was happening in the Hooper-Holmes household, William promised he would come and say 'goodbye' in the morning, before they went off to the countryside, and said 'good night'. He set off up the path towards the house but then suddenly turned and ran back. Pressing his lips to the top of the hive, he whispered,

'I love you, bees.'

Then he trotted back up to the house, let himself in through the back door and followed his nose to the kitchen and the freshly baked scones.

ooOoo

 **Not long now!**


	27. Until Death - Chapter Twenty-Six

**Not quite there yet! But all the main characters are all assembled. The wedding is one sleep away!**

 **Chapter Twenty-Six**

The morning after their first night at Colbert House, the weekend guests assembled in the Breakfast Room for more of Mrs Orgreave's delicious cooking. Mrs Brocklehurst was still dealing with the culture shock brought on by sleeping in an antique bed in a room with a name – Byron – and an en suite bathroom that linked through to the next bedroom – called Lamb – where Josie was sleeping in another antique bed. All the furniture in this house was at least a hundred years old and probably very valuable – and yet they let the twins climb all over it!

Katy and Charlie – oh, those two little darlings! Arthur's mum could not have been more thrilled with those two. When they arrived home from school, the previous afternoon, with Nanny Sara, they both raced into the house, squealing,

'Granny! Granny! Where are you?'

but screeched to a halt when she suddenly appeared, in the front hall. Both children stood and fiddled, awkwardly, with their fingers, suddenly shy at being face to face with this strange lady, who Pappah had told them all about and who they'd chatted to on the phone quite a few times. But meeting Granny in the flesh was still a huge event in their young lives!

Mrs B smiled, sweetly, and nodding at Charlie, said,

'Hello, you must be Katy! And you must be Charlie,' nodding at Katy.

'No-oh,' exclaimed Katy, indignantly. Both children looked disgruntled for a moment but then Arthur burst out laughing and the little ones saw the joke.

'Oh, you are teasing us!' exclaimed Katy, with relief.

'Of course, I am, my sweet!' Granny B replied. 'That's what grannies do!'

Ice broken, they exchanged hugs and moved to the Snug, so Katy and Charlie could meet their brand-new relatives, who they had only ever seen in photos and videos, on Poppah's phone.

Around the breakfast table, there was an air of anticipation, especially in around Rosie and Josie. They were both dying to meet Molly, who they'd been told would be arriving around lunchtime, with Sherlock and the children.

Rosie was curious to learn what sort of woman would put up with a rude, arrogant, up-himself poseur like Sherlock. She had only met him once – at Josie's flat, the previous summer - and had found him quite annoying! OK, he was very good-looking but what he gained in aesthetics, he rather lost in the temperament department. Any woman who put up with that amount of arseholery must be either a harridan fishwife, who nagged him to distraction behind closed doors, or a complete doormat who let him walk all over her. Rosie could not think of another model that might work. Despite what Josie told her about what happened later that night, Rosie was the sort who needed to see for herself to be convinced of anything.

Josie, on the other hand, was more interested in learning what sort of woman might attract a man like Sherlock. She had a much higher opinion of him than did Rosie. She had seen him in very different circumstances. He'd handed himself over to Colonel Moran so that she and Arthur might escape with their lives, a heroic act of selfless bravery, in Josie's opinion, and one she hadn't yet had the opportunity to thank him for – not in person, at least. She intended to put that right today.

But, for now, they were all helping themselves to a cooked breakfast of bacon, eggs, devilled kidneys and fried mushrooms, toasted English muffins, fresh fruit, a variety of cereals, and coffee or English Breakfast tea.

Josh and Jack were quizzing Mycroft about whether or not the house might be haunted. He gave the rather ambiguous reply that he'd never witnessed any ghostly goings-on but perhaps he wasn't very receptive to that sort of thing - which left the option open that there could be spirits lurking in the shadows, so the boys were absolutely convinced there must be.

Mrs Brocklehurst had found a soulmate in Caro. The ladies had hit it off from the moment they met and spent the entire previous evening chatting like old pals. Both their lives covered the same span of decades – albeit in very different circumstances – so they shared a good deal of common knowledge and, consequently, an endless source of material to chat about. Caro was currently filling in the blanks about the Holmes' family history – the less sensitive stuff, obviously. Mrs B was keen to know as much as possible about the family her son was marrying into.

Rosie's shy and retiring husband, Jim, was deep in conversation with Henrique, topic unknown, but they were both very animated and fully engaged with the subject, judging from the frequent bouts of synchronised head-nodding. Rosie, on the other side of the table, was curious to know what they were talking about but Jim was studiously avoiding her eye. She would have to wait until she got him alone and then grill all the details out of him.

Arthur, sitting quietly and letting all these conversations wash over him, took a break from running lists through his head, checking to see if any vital wedding detail had been overlooked, to watch Mycroft interacting so disarmingly with his family. They had all been so apprehensive about meeting him but did any of them even imagine how nervous he was at meeting them? Arthur doubted that very much. Mycroft was so expert at masking his emotions, only a privileged few were privy to what lay beneath the mask. Arthur caught his fiancé's eye and they exchanged smiles.

The weekend had started well. Arthur hoped it would continue in the same vein.

ooOoo

Sixty miles away, in Firs Lodge, Molly had packed everything but the kitchen sink for their mini-break in the country – or so it seemed, judging from the pile of luggage that Sherlock had brought down from the bedrooms and assembled in the front hall.

'Do we really need all this stuff?' he asked, frowning at the motley collection of suitcases and holdalls. 'I don't think we took this much when we went to Brazil for the whole summer!'

'No, darling,' Molly replied, acerbically, 'I don't believe we did – but that was Brazil, the land of samba and sun – not Hertfordshire, the land of rain and sludge. And it was the summer, as you so rightly point out. And, I seem to remember, we had one less child!'

'Oh, yes!' he exclaimed, with a sheepish grin, remembering one night in particular, when the scent and sound of the ocean wafted through their hotel room windows, carried on the breeze.

'We need to be prepared…' Molly went on. 'Oh, Freddie! Bring me all the wellies from the Utility Room, please, sweetie!' she called. Going to the country without their wellies would be disastrous!

Also sitting on the hall floor were Sherlock's and William's violin cases. Arthur had asked them to 'do something' during the ceremony so they had composed and rehearsed a duet together. They would present the sheet music to the happy couple as a gift, after the wedding.

Sherlock continued to stare at the pile of luggage, ruffling his hair in bewilderment, then came a knock at the door and he opened it to reveal the Holmes family chauffeur, Mr Orgreave, smiling and tipping his cap.

'Good morning, Master Sherlock,' he said, brightly. Eyeing the collection of bags and cases, he added, 'Shall I take care of these?' and reached for the two largest wheelies.

'Let me help,' Sherlock insisted, taking one of the cases from him and dragging it down the path towards the waiting limousine, carrying a second bag in his other hand.

By the time all the luggage was loaded into the limo's voluminous boot, Molly had all the children installed in their child safety seats, inside the waiting car, and the house was locked up for the weekend. Nanny Marie was having a much-anticipated St Valentine's weekend away with her boyfriend, Gavin. They had already left for St Pancras Station, to catch the Eurostar to Paris.

After a rapid visual scan to check that all was present and correct, Sherlock closed the boot lid and climbed into the back of the car, flipping down the jump seat to sit with his back to the direction of travel. He paused when he saw that Molly was already sitting in the other jump seat, behind the driver.

'You don't have to sit there,' he said. 'Why don't you ride shotgun? It's much more comfortable,' he suggested, tilting his head in the direction of the front passenger seat.

'That's very sweet of you, darling, but I'm fine here, thanks,' Molly smiled back. Then, grinning at the children, she said, 'OK, Freddie, what are we singing today?'

' _Anything_ but 'Frozen', Freddie, _please_!' William begged.

'Aw,' pouted Freddie, 'I yite 'Fwozen' de best!'

'Maybe one song from 'Frozen', William,' Molly interceded, 'but maybe not 'Let It Go'?'

' _Definitely_ not 'Let It Go'!' William replied, nodded vehemently. 'Thank you, Mummy,' he added, with a grateful smile, glancing surreptitiously at Sherlock, who gave a sigh of relief. A long, uncomfortable evening in a freezing cold alleyway, with Freddie singing that particular song over and over in his Mind Palace, had given him a bad case of Frozenophobia.

ooOoo

The limo drew up at a red light at the signal controlled Apex Corner junction, alongside other waiting traffic on the triple-lane carriageway. Freddie and Violet were giving a spirited rendition of 'The Wheels on the Bus', as Molly joined in with the actions. William and Sherlock had cut themselves off from the noise by talking about bees.

The car's engine idled, waiting for the lights to change and more cars drew up behind. Then the lights turned to green and the traffic in the lanes either side of the limo began to move forward across the junction. The limo, however, remained stationary. After a very brief pause, the driver in the car immediately behind sounded his horn, to urge the limo to move on. But there was no reaction. Another car in the queue sounded its horn, too, then another and another. And cars began to pull out of the queue into the other lanes and overtake the stationary vehicle, irate drivers hurling angry looks and verbal abuse as they passed.

At the same time, Molly, Sherlock and William noticed the commotion going on outside their vehicle, just as the lights changed back to red. Sherlock and Molly turned in their seats to look at Mr Orgreave, sitting immobile at the wheel. He was staring straight ahead, with a blank expression. Molly pressed the button in the arm rest which lowered the privacy screen separating the rear compartment from the driver.

'Mr Orgreave?' she prompted, reaching through to touch the chauffeur's shoulder.

'Oh! Hello, Mrs Holmes!' Mr O exclaimed, suddenly alert and a little confused. 'Er…oh…can I help you with something?'

'Are you OK, Mr Orgreave?' Molly asked.

'Oh, yes, ma'am, I'm absolutely fine,' he replied, wondering why she was asking.

'It's just you seemed a bit distracted,' said Molly, peering into the chauffeur's eyes, checking for anything amiss.

'No, no, I'm fine, thank you…' the chauffeur replied, a little tetchily. Then, as the lights changed again, he put the car into gear and started forward. 'Sorry, ma'am. I need to get on, now,' he added, discouraging further conversation.

Molly and Sherlock exchanged a look, both concerned that something was not right with the family chauffeur. Sherlock toyed with the idea of asking the driver to pull over, and taking control of the car but Mr O seemed completely back to normal, now, He'd just been lost in thought for a moment. That could happen at traffic lights. Perhaps he had a lot on his mind. Sherlock and Molly exchanged another look and turned back to the children.

'Is Mr Orgreave alright?' asked William, aware of his parents' concern and, therefore, concerned too.

'Yes, he's OK, Will,' Sherlock assured him, but kept the privacy screen open and engaged the chauffeur in intermittent conversation for the rest of the journey. When the car finally turned into the driveway of Colbert House, Freddie and Violet clapped and cheered. They couldn't arrive soon enough. The journey had only taken just over an hour but sitting in a car was not their favourite pastime.

As the limo pulled up in front of the country house, the grand oak door opened and the whole weekend party poured forth to greet the new arrivals. Sherlock climbed out of the vehicle with Violet in his arms and turned towards the house, visually scanning Arthur's relatives – _Rosie, the mouthy one, had put on three pounds since he'd last seen her; Josie, the feisty one, had changed her hair style and was wearing new underwear, which redefined her figure and accentuated her breasts; Mrs Brocklehurst, the submissive wife, had also changed her hairstyle and stood taller now, looking more confident and a lot younger. And that must be Jim, the husband, who was unhappy with his current life path, thinking about changing his job, perhaps, or looking for a new challenge?_

He glanced at the two young boys – _one about William's vintage, the other a couple of years younger; both tall for their age, sturdy and athletic, with a strong family resemblance. The Brocklehurst genes were obviously dominant..._

'Stop that, my darling,' Molly murmured as she came up beside him, smiling warmly at the assembled crowd, giving his buttock a gentle squeeze to break his concentration. 'No deducing the in-laws, remember?'

Sherlock beetled his brow. _Oh, yes, he had promised, in a rash moment._

'Welcome!' Mycroft exclaimed, greeting Molly in the French fashion, with a peck on each cheek, and shaking Sherlock's hand. 'I trust you had a pleasant journey?'

'Mmm, mostly,' Sherlock replied. He would have a word with his brother later about the chauffeur's odd interlude.

But, right now, he was expected to be 'sociable' and introduce his wife and children to these _people_. His take on that particular convention was, 'Molly, William, Freddie, Violet, this is ( _insert name here_ ),' and move on. Molly would not be happy with that, Sherlock knew, so he made an executive decision. Passing Violet over to his wife, he mumbled something about helping with the luggage and disappeared behind the limo, leaving Mycroft and Arthur to perform the introductions. His covert observations confirmed that they did a much better job of it than he ever could.

Exchanging pleasantries with Arthur's mother and sisters, Molly had the distinct impression she was being vetted. She couldn't help but notice Josie's frequent glances in Sherlock's direction as he lifted their luggage out of the back of the limo and passed it to the staff, then scurried past with an armful of wellies, heading for the kitchen and the possibility of a sneak preview of lunch, fresh from Mrs O's Aga.

'Your kiddies are so beautiful,' Rosie declared, tickling Violet's cheek. 'This one has your chin!'

'Yes, unfortunately,' Molly replied, ruefully, 'but she has my husband's eyes, so not all bad! And your boys are very handsome!' she added.

'Yes, they take after me,' Rosie laughed. 'I always thought I'd make a crackin' lad! And now I've made two!'

Freddie wasted no time introducing himself to the two 'crackin' lads' and engaging them in conversation.

'You talk dust lite Untle Arthur!' he declared, breaking the ice.

'And you talk dead posh,' Josh replied.

'Do I?' Freddie chuckled. _'Tool!'_

William hung back, watching the two strange boys, cautiously. He needed to study them a bit more before deciding whether he liked them or not. Then he spotted Caro and Henrique, standing in the background, letting the family members take the limelight. William ran to the couple, delighted to see his surrogate grandparents, and immediately reverted to Portuguese.

This didn't go unnoticed. Josie was duly impressed.

'Your eldest son is bi-lingual?' she exclaimed to Molly.

'Yes, he gets that from his dad,' Molly replied. 'Sherlock picks up languages by osmosis.'

Josie swallowed the sigh that threatened to give her away but Molly spotted her reaction, anyway.

Mycroft interrupted the chatter, ushering them all inside as it started to drizzle, again. They trouped indoors and made their way to the dining room where lunch was about to be served.

ooOoo

Much later, around midnight, Mycroft walked around the quiet house, turning off lights. It was a ritual he enjoyed at the end of the day, giving him a sense of security and inner peace. The house was going to sleep and all was well with the world.

But this night was special. It would be the last night he performed this ritual as a single man. Tomorrow, his life would change for ever.

In keeping with tradition, Mycroft and Arthur were spending their last night as bachelors alone - Mycroft in the master suite, in the main house, and Arthur in one of the rooms in the East Wing, above the Great Hall, where the bridal parties who hired the hall as a wedding venue were usually accommodated. He wasn't completely alone - Rosie and Jim were in the room next to him and their children in the room next to them. Tomorrow morning, the other guests would start to arrive - Arthur's army buddies and Mycroft's friends and associates from the world of diplomacy and national security. They would make an interesting mix, Mycroft mused, as he switched off the lamp on the hall table outside his bedroom door. This time tomorrow, he thought, he and Arthur would be thirty thousand feet up in the air, on their way to their honeymoon destination. What a difference a day would make!

He stepped into his bedroom and closed the door.

ooOoo

 **Posh hats at the ready, ladies!**


	28. Until Death - Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Nearly there...!**

 **Some uncharacteristic strong language from Arthur - but, hey, he is with his Army buddies!**

 **Chapter Twenty-Seven**

The sudden sound of a child crying had Mycroft instantly awake. He threw off the duvet and sat up on the side of the bed, listening intently for the noise that had broken his dream. Then it came again and he relaxed, with a sigh of relief. Violet, one floor down, was demanding attention but not his. He checked his bedside clock – six-thirty. No rush to get up, even though it was his Wedding Day. He lay back down and closed his eyes, musing on the day ahead.

Elsewhere in the grand house, despite the early hour, it was already a hive of activity. Mrs Orgreave, in the farmhouse kitchen, was preparing two lots of breakfast – one for Arthur and his family, who would eat in one of the East Wing side rooms, and one for Mycroft's family and friends, who would be using the Breakfast Room in the main house. The grooms would not meet today until they stood before the celebrant, to make their vows.

Housekeeper Mrs Willis and her team had spent most of Saturday setting up the Great Hall for the day's events. The partition screen had been drawn, dividing the hall in two. In the front half, the chairs were set out in a semi-circle, three rows deep, with a central aisle. The celebrant's table was positioned in front of the stage, with two chairs, for the grooms, in the centre of the semi-circle.

The rear half of the hall was laid out for the formal meal, with a rectangular head table at the far end and six circular ones, each seating eight guests, spread out within the space. Covered in white linen and set with silver cutlery and crystal glasses, they made the whole room sparkle.

The floral arrangements and table centre decorations had been delivered late on Saturday afternoon, to ensure their freshness, and were distributed strategically around both halves of the hall, adding splashes of colour and filling the air with the sweet scent of fresh Spring flowers – irises, narcissi, freesias, hyacinths, tulips and Lily-of-the-Valley. The principals' button holes – comprised of freesia, Lily-of-the-Valley, a single white rose and a sprig of maidenhair fern - were in the 'cold room', keeping cool and fresh.

In the professional kitchen, beneath the Great Hall, staff were already prepping the ingredients for the Wedding Breakfast, and the wedding cake – a fine creation by Mrs O's daughter, who had made Sherlock and Molly's wedding cake, too – was also stored in the 'cold room', awaiting the time when it would be wheeled out and put on display, before the Cutting of the Cake, during the evening 'do'.

One of the tutorial rooms had been kitted out as a temporary beauty parlour, complete with a team of beauticians, to provide a professional hair and make-up service for the female guests who wished to avail themselves. Another, slightly smaller, room was similarly equipped as a barbers' salon, providing wet shaves and hair trims for the convenience of the male guests. Mycroft had called upon his own personal barber to provide this service, though he and Sherlock would be served in the privacy of his bedroom.

Arthur's musical Army friends, who had played at Sherlock's wedding to Molly, were performing again – and had offered their services free of charge, as a wedding gift.

The celebrant was due to arrive at ten-thirty a.m., half an hour before the scheduled start of the ceremony – allowing enough time for a quiet word with each of the grooms and an opportunity to answer any last-minute questions they may have about the proceedings. They were unlikely to have any, since Mycroft and Arthur had designed the service themselves, chosen the readings and other elements and written their own vows. This was a civil ceremony, not a religious one, so there would be no hymn-singing but there would be music, notably a harpist who would be playing as the guests assembled in the Great Hall and also during the Champagne Reception and the Wedding Breakfast.

The bedrooms in the East Wing were all made up, ready to receive the non-family wedding guests as they arrived.

So, the stage was set, waiting only for the actors to assume their starting positions, in a few short hours' time.

ooOoo

Sherlock rolled out of bed and stumbled to the travel cot, where Violet was standing, holding onto the side with one hand and clutching her cuddly cuttlefish in the other, howling at the top of her voice.

'Shush-shush-shush, little girl,' he soothed, lifting the infant from the cot and hugging her to his chest. 'Hush now. We don't want to wake the whole house,' he added, jiggling her in his arms to quiet her cries, as he returned to the bed, where Molly was just rolling over and sitting up.

'What time is it?' she asked, rubbing her eyes and trying to focus on her wrist watch but without success.

'Half past six,' Sherlock replied, gruffly, climbing back into bed and placing Violet on the mattress between himself and Molly, so she could see them both.

'Dint, da-da, dint!' Violet demanded.

'Coffee, black, two sugars,' Sherlock replied, in his gravelly morning voice.

'DINT!' Violet demanded, louder and more forcefully.

'How old are you, now?' he huffed, feigning confusion. 'Isn't it time you were getting your own drinks?'

'Here you are, sweetie,' Molly cooed, handing Violet the feeder cup of water that she had prepared the night before for just this eventuality. Violet always woke up thirsty. The eleven-month-old placed her favourite soft toy, carefully, in her lap then took the cup by both handles and put it to her lips, sucking at the spout for several swallows before lowering it again.

'Ta-tu, ma-ma,' she moued, with a happy smile, displaying all eight of the teeth she had acquired so far.

'What time's breakfast?' Molly yawned, taking the cup from Violet before she could tip the remaining contents into the bed, as she abandoned it in favour of 'Wib'.

'Seven-thirty,' Sherlock replied, joining in the yawn. 'Then I'm afraid I have to leave you to it. I'll be attending to Mycroft until after the ceremony.' He turned towards Molly and reached past the babbling infant to card his fingers into his wife's hair.

'That's OK,' Molly smiled back, placing her hand over his. 'Caro and Henrique said they would help with the children. They can't wait to get their hands on them.'

'That's good,' he nodded, then, 'and just in case you thought I'd forgotten…' He slipped his other hand under his pillow and, at the same time, leaned forward to give Molly a bristly pre-shave kiss.

'Happy St Valentine's Day,' he whispered and presented her with a small package, wrapped in bright red paper and tied with a gold ribbon.

She was astonished.

'Wh…who… What…? Since when did we do St Valentine's Day?' she spluttered as she took the gift from him.

'Since today,' he grinned, smugly, very pleased to have surprised her. He turned to Violet, who was clamouring for her share of his attention, gave her a bristly kiss, too, then jumping out of bed and strolling off to the bathroom to take a shower before breakfast. Pausing at the bathroom door, he glanced back to see Molly gaping, like a landed fish, at the object in her hand, and smiled again.

ooOoo

It was a new tradition at Colbert House that, when it was just the family – which naturally included Caro and Henrique – everyone was allowed, if not expected, to come to breakfast in their night wear and dressing gowns. It made for an informal and colourful start to the day and, on this day in particular, it was a welcome low-key precursor to the formality and pomp to come.

Mycroft, the twins and their nannies were already in situ when the Hooper-Holmes family arrived. Caro and Henrique were not far behind. Helping themselves and the children from the sideboard buffet, everyone took their places, amid a lively buzz of chatter. Mycroft, Molly noted, looked well-rested but a little tense. He kept glancing at the chair where Arthur usually sat, now left vacant as everyone took their regular seats.

'Is Poppah not coming to bweakfast?' Charlie asked, also aware of the empty place.

'He's having breakfast with his family,' Katy replied, archly. Katy loved to impart information, especially to Charlie.

'We is his family!' Charlie exclaimed, looking puzzled.

'It's just for today, Charlie,' Mycroft assured him. 'Poppah and I aren't seeing each other before the wedding. It's a tradition.'

'Is it a twadism that I can't see him, neiver?' asked Charlie, seeking clarification.

'No, you can see him. You can go and see him after breakfast, if you like. And you, too, Katy. I'm sure Michele or Sara would be happy to take you,' Mycroft replied.

'I would like that vewy much,' Charlie exclaimed, grinning from one ear to the other. Katy declared that she would, too, and not wishing to be left out, Freddie asked if he could, also. So, that was settled.

The rest of the meal was taken up by the adults – with the exception of Mycroft and Sherlock – working out a complicated rota for supervising the children whilst also getting everyone dolled up for the wedding. As a result, Sara, Molly, William and Henrique went straight from the Breakfast Room to the beauty salon and the barbers, as appropriate, Caro took charge of Violet and the three remaining children went with Michele to visit Arthur and his family, prior to returning to the main House, to prepare for the big event.

With three hours to go before the ceremony was due to start, there was a lot to be done and not a moment to spare.

ooOoo

Sherlock lounged languorously across Mycroft and Arthur's sumptuous bed, while his brother lay back in the black leather chair being ministered to by his personal barber. Mycroft was in a thoughtful mood.

Today was a landmark day on many, many levels. Yes, he was pledging himself to another human being for whatever remained of his natural life but, in truth, he had already done that in his heart. This ceremony was a mere formality. More significantly, he was about to make a declaration of his love for that person, in public _._

Mycroft was a deeply private man. Although he had never denied his sexuality, he had never advertised it either and he was not given to public displays of affection. Yet he was about to bear his soul in front of _other people,_ some of whom he had known for many years and some he had never even met before. It was hard to know which of those was the most challenging.

And on this day of days, it was natural that he should be reviewing his life's journey, reflecting on the many conscious decisions and random acts that had led him to this point but also looking forward to what the future might hold for him and his family. He was all too aware how suddenly and irrevocably life could change - the fate of his own parents had taught him that lesson very early in his life. And part of his preparation for today had been to rewrite his will, in order to take into account his new status as a married man.

'I'm leaving the property jointly to both the children,' he said, apparently out of the blue.

'Oh, really?' said Sherlock, in the absence of an opinion on the subject.

'Yes,' Mycroft replied. 'Charlie will take the title, of course, but I expect Katy will actually run the show. She seems to have a taste for it, already.'

'Rather her than me,' Sherlock muttered. He had never had any desire to be involved in the family business of Colbert House Estate. Ignoring his brother's predictable comment, Mycroft went on.

'I've made provision for your family, too.'

'That's not necessary!' Sherlock exclaimed, sitting up, abruptly.

''It's my choice, Sherlock,' Mycroft replied. 'And not intended, in any way, as a reflection of your ability to support your family.'

'Oh, really?' Sherlock huffed.

'Yes, really!' Mycroft snapped back. 'It's my way of evening the score, nothing more.'

Sherlock would have liked to say more but he could hear Molly's voice in his head telling him this was neither the time nor the place to be picking an argument with his brother about his excessive generosity so, instead, he just said,

'Oh, whatever,' and lay back down on the bed, closing his eyes, patiently waiting for his turn with the barber before changing into his wedding suit.

Mycroft couldn't resist a wry smile as he settled back into his reverie.

ooOoo

The relative calm pervading the Holmes family side of the house was in stark contrast to the atmosphere in the Brocklehurst gathering. Arthur's three best Army buddies, who were acting as ushers, had arrived early and the abusive banter had already started to fly.

Unable to choose which of his closest friends should be his Best Man, Arthur had decided to ask his dad to perform those duties, rather than disappoint anyone by favouring one pal over the other two. When Arthur Senior declined to attend altogether, Arthur turned to his brother-in-law, Jim, to fulfil the role and he was honoured to accept.

So, Arthur and Jim, side by side in adjacent barbers' chairs, were also enjoying a wet shave that was anything but relaxing, amid the clamour of voices as everyone talked at once. But the only people who seemed to notice were the two barbers, who exchanged raised eyebrows whilst trying very hard not to damage either of their clients – most especially not the groom.

Arthur picked up on the barbers' discomfort and took control of the situation. Sitting up, he yelled,

'Oi, you lot! Just piss off, will you! I don't wanna have my throat cut on my Wedding Day, for fuck's sake!'

He waved his arms to shoe them all out of the room.

'And shut the bloody door!' he added, then lay back down and looked up at the barber.

'Just tidy everything up a bit, mate,' he said, with a grin.

ooOoo

Next door, in the salon, the first sitting was almost done. Molly and Josie admired each other's reflections in the mirror.

'That colour palette really suits your skin tone,' observed Josie, feeling quite envious of Molly's peaches and cream complexion. 'Your skin is flawless! You hardly need any foundation at all.'

Molly blushed, accentuating her English rose colouring still further. She never knew how to respond to compliments, since she didn't ever feel they were justified. She was about to point out how stunning Josie looked, with her classic looks, shown to maximum effect by the film star makeover worthy of any magazine cover, but she was forestalled by the sudden appearance of Mycroft's housekeeper, Mrs Willis, at her side.

'Mrs Holmes,' she said, 'Master Sherlock asked me to bring this to you,' and she handed Molly a small, transparent florist's box and vanished as suddenly as she had appeared.

For the second time that day, Molly was starring open-mouthed at a gift from her husband, in this case a fresh flower hair corsage of pale yellow freesias and a pure white rose.

'Oh, but I already have a fascinator…' she gulped, lamely, referring to the huge yellow fabric bow that the hair dresser had just fixed to her bun.

'But that will go beautifully with your bow, Mrs Holmes,' the stylist enthused. 'It's just perfect!'

Molly blinked back the moisture that was stinging her eyes and watched as the delicate confection of flowers was removed from its box and pinned to her hair, over the bow. The stylist held up a hand mirror so that Molly could see the finished coiffure. The colours matched exactly.

'You look absolutely gorgeous!' breathed Josie

ooOoo

Back in her bedroom, Molly gave her children the final once-over prior to going downstairs to take their places in the Great Hall, where the wedding ceremony was due to begin in fifteen minutes.

Freddie had asked – no, begged – to be allowed to wear his Disney Princess dress to the wedding but had accepted a compromise. For the ceremony, he was wearing his suit – the one made especially for Sherlock and Molly's wedding - altered by the tailor to accommodate one year's growth. But he would be changing into his Princess Elsa dress for the party, afterwards.

William was happy to wear his tailored suit for the whole day, as long as he could remove his tie and jacket in the evening. His outfit had also been altered to allow for the extra inches he had acquired in his leg and arm length.

Violet, who…

' _was at Mummy and Daddy's wedding, inside Mummy's tummy,' Freddie pointed out, helpfully,_

…was wearing her brand-new outfit – a dress made from pure white cotton, with a vibrant printed pattern of violets on the over-dress, a matching violet-blue cardigan and headband, both with flower appliques, and ivory satin ballet pumps over white cotton socks. Violet had chosen the costume herself, on a girls-only shopping trip with Molly, demonstrating that she was definitely her mother's daughter when it came to taste in clothing.

Molly's outfit was also floral and equally vibrant in colour – a vintage dress of sunshine-yellow printed fabric that matched the bow in her hair, a pale yellow, fine-knit cardigan, nude leather court shoes and a matching clutch bag, complimented by a fresh-flower button hole from the cold room. The Hooper-Holmes ladies were really rocking the Spring Time look, in sharp relief to the more formal attire of the menfolk.

'Oh, Mummy, you do look lovely!' William exclaimed.

'An' you, Ada! You loot luberly, too!' Freddie agreed.

'Thank you, my darlings!' Molly replied, bobbing a curtsy, 'and you are both very handsome.' Then, hefting Violet onto her hip, she announced,

'Right, let's go to the wedding!'

ooOoo

 **I'm sure you didn't need me to tell you that Molly's outfit is the one she wore to John and Mary's wedding. She looked so gorgeous in that outfit, it was a no-brainer to put it in my AU. Molly's sense of style is unique and individual and tells us so much about her fun and quirky personality.**


	29. Until Death - Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Hankies at the ready, folks!**

 **Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Molly and the children came to the big double doors that led into the Great Hall and were met by three young men decked out in the Full Dress uniforms of their regiment, and looking extremely smart.

'Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,' said one of them, in a very pleasant Scottish accent. 'Are you with the groom or the groom?'

The tired groans of the other ushers were proof enough that this particular joke had already lost any appeal it may have ever had.

'Groom,' replied Molly, with a smile, accepting the Order of Service that the young man offered and taking herself and the children into the Hall. Looking around, she spotted two familiar faces in the second row of the right-hand side of the semi-circle, the Holmes family side of the room. She smiled and waved to Scotland Yard's finest, D.I. Greg Lestrade, and Mycroft's P.A., Anthea Smith. They had been together for over a year now and the thought occurred to Molly that perhaps their wedding would be the next big event.

She made her way to the front row of Mycroft's side, where Caro and Henrique were already sitting. Henrique rose to his feet and greeted Molly with three air kisses – right, left and right again – as was traditional in Brazil. He did the same for Violet, and shook William and Freddie by the hand. Molly passed Violet over to Caro, who was cooing fit to burst over the little girl's outfit, and they all took their seats.

'Oh, my goodness, Violet! You are adorable!' the honorary grandmother gushed. 'And you boys, too. In fact, you all are! So lovely!'

Molly gazed around at the room, admiring the good taste and skill that Mycroft's staff had put into dressing the space. She noted that the stage was now set up for the evening entertainment, with all the gear associated with a modern rock band – guitars, drum kit, keyboards, speakers and microphones. The band-members, she saw, were sitting together on Arthur's side of the room, chatting with his family and other friends – guests now, entertainers later.

Also on the stage, set to one side, were Sherlock's full-sized violin and William's two-thirds size one, sitting in their stands ready for the duet, scheduled for later. Molly thought she might just burst with pride at that point in the proceedings and she was certain that her waterproof mascara would be severely tested, too. Probably not for the first time, this day, or even the last.

Over to the left of the stage, the harpist was at her instrument, playing a delightful tune that Molly remembered from her childhood. It was the theme tune to a popular children's TV programme, loosely based on 'The Wind in the Willows' and featuring live action, using real animals. Molly had loved that programme. She wondered, absently, whether there might be a box set she could get for Freddie and Violet. She felt sure they would love it, too. William, maybe not so much. He would probably think it was silly to anthropomorphise the little animals. He was ever his father's son.

The room was almost full now, or rather the chairs were nearly all taken. It would take a lot more than sixty or so people to fill this room. But a dozen seats on the back row had been reserved for staff, who were invited to witness the ceremony, in between performing their duties.

Molly glanced across at the other side of the room – Arthur's side – and smiled at his mother and sisters. Mrs B looked very emotional, on the verge of tears. It must be difficult for her, Molly mused, with her husband refusing to attend his own son's wedding. Molly thought back to her own wedding and that awful business with her mother. At least she came to her senses, in the end. Molly hoped Arthur's dad would come around, eventually. But he would still have missed this joyous day.

'I see Sherlock gave you the perfume,' said Caro, bringing Molly's attention back to the present, breathing in her aroma. The package Sherlock gave her that morning had contained a bottle of her favourite scent, an exclusive fragrance she had discovered during her holiday in Brazil. The bottle she brought home eighteen months before had run out long ago so she was absolutely delighted when she opened the gift wrap and saw what was inside.

'Oh!' Molly exclaimed. 'He told you about that?'

'I brought it from Rio myself,' Caro replied, smiling.

Molly's smile faltered, inversely proportional to a rising sense of disappointment. _What did this mean? Was the gift from Caro, then, and not from Sherlock?_

'Yes, Sherlock emailed me – oh, weeks ago – and asked me if I could bring a bottle over with me. He said it was your favourite!'

'Oh, it is!' said Molly, all smiles again, and feeling more than a little guilty about doubting Sherlock's integrity.

The door to one of the side rooms opened and a small, fair haired lady emerged, carrying a leather satchel, and walked purposefully towards the table, set in front of the stage. She opened the satchel and took out a large, official-looking book – the Register of Marriages - which would need to be signed in order to make this marriage legal and binding. She opened the register at the appropriate page and placed it on the table, along with a platinum-plated Mont Blanc pen which she always used for this purpose. A momentous occasion called for a special pen.

Then she removed from the satchel a leather-bound folder, in which she had placed the transcript of the service that Mycroft and Arthur had chosen for their wedding. She checked that the pages of the transcript were all in the right order then moved to stand in front of the table, holding the folder open, in both hands. Turning to the harpist, she gave a nod to indicate that she was ready to begin. The musician brought her current piece to a suitably rounded end and smiled back, before extricating herself from the instrument and taking a seat in the audience.

The celebrant turned to face the congregation, straightened her shoulders, smiled at the assembly and began.

'Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,' she said, in a firm, clear voice. 'Welcome to Hertfordshire, welcome to Colbert House, and welcome to the wedding of Mycroft and Arthur. My name is Candy Lucas. I'm an accredited Wedding Celebrant and it is my great pleasure to be officiating at this wedding. Before we start, please could I ask you all to silence your phones? The ceremony is about to begin.'

A few people hastily fished in their bags and pockets to switch off their phones, as Mrs Lucas waited patiently.

'Might I also point out that we have an official photographer, who will be taking photos, discreetly, during the ceremony.' This was Mycroft's old friend, Archie Burgess, who had performed the same function at Sherlock and Molly's wedding. 'You will all have the opportunity to take photos at the end of proceedings but please don't take any during, as it can be quite distracting for everyone.'

Some people groaned but the vast majority nodded in agreement.

'So, now, let us begin,' announced Mrs Lucas. 'Please rise to greet our happy couple!'

As the audience got to its feet, the strains of 'The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba', by George Frederick Handel, poured from the sound system and two doors opened simultaneously, on opposite sides of the hall.

The audience emitted an audible gasp and burst into spontaneous applause, as Katy appeared from the door on the right, dressed in a bright red, velvet dress, trimmed at the neck, cuffs and hem with white faux fur, and wearing red patent leather shoes, carrying a little hand basket from which she was liberally sprinkling fragrant flower heads, as she walked.

Behind her strode Mycroft, smiling broadly and looking proud as a peacock. He was immaculately turned out in his charcoal grey cashmere three-piece suit, handmade dress shirt, in white silk, black silk tie and his trademark handmade Italian leather shoes. And beside him walked Sherlock, looking suave but solemn in a black Spencer Hart two-piece fine wool suit, handmade black cotton shirt and black Eton lace-ups.

From the door on the left, Arthur emerged, also smiling. Tall, slim and athletic, he drew the eye in his dark burgundy, mohair suit, white Irish linen shirt and black leather Oxfords. Trotting beside him, clinging to his hand, was Charlie. The little boy, wearing a mid-grey three-piece suit, white cotton shirt, navy blue tie and matching suede brogues, looked around apprehensively. Unlike his sister, he was not comfortable being the centre of attention but holding Poppah's hand gave him the confidence to cope with the ordeal.

On Arthur's other side was Jim, in a grey twill Jeff Banks three-piece, hired especially for the occasion, white shirt, black tie and black leather brogues. He also looked around nervously but all the happy, smiling faces in the congregation proved infectious and, before he knew it, he was smiling, too. As Arthur walked past his family and friends – soldiers, nurses and Uni students – they cheered, loudly.

The two grooms met in front of the celebrant and turned their backs to the audience.

'You look wonderful,' Mycroft whispered, leaning in to close the gap between them.

'Thank you,' Arthur smiled. 'You're not so bad yourself! Do you think they get the joke?' he added, referring to their choice of processional music. Mycroft merely smiled.

Sherlock took Katy by the hand and led her to their seats, handed her over to Nanny Michele and turned to stand next to Molly. Violet wasted no time in reaching out to her father, demanding he take her from her mum. After all, she hadn't seen him for days! - or, rather, since breakfast. Jim took Charlie to the seats on Arthur's side of the room, where Nanny Sara was waiting to receive him, alongside Granny Brocklehurst. As the music came to an end, the celebrant pronounced,

'You may all be seated, thank you', and everyone sat down, including the two grooms.

Molly slipped her hand into Sherlock's and plaited their fingers together.

'Thank you, darling,' she murmured. He wrinkled his brow, wondering what he was being thanked for. Not murdering Mycroft, despite spending three whole uninterrupted hours in his company, listening to him contemplating his own demise? Why his brother was suddenly so obsessed with death on his Wedding Day, of all days, he couldn't fathom. Then he spotted the hair corsage.

'Oh! Looks good,' he said, indicating the flowers in her bun. 'And you,' he added, leaning over to kiss her cheek, 'are the most beautiful woman in this room.'

'Shush,' she whispered because the Celebrant was speaking again.

'Welcome everyone,' she said. 'We are delighted that so many of you could be here today. One of the many wonderful things about a wedding is that it brings together families and friends from far and near and unites us all in celebration of the joining of two souls. I'm always impressed by how far people are willing to travel to be present on a day like this. It only goes to prove how important it is to mark these happy transitions in our lives.'

'Mycroft and Arthur,' she went on, 'would like to acknowledge the spiritual presence of some people who mean a great deal to them.'

Arthur looked down into his lap and his shoulders seemed to droop, very slightly. Mycroft reached across and took his hand as Mrs Lucas continued with the 'Honour the Parents' statement.

'Mycroft and Arthur deeply regret that their parents are not all physically here today to join the celebration. Arthur never had the opportunity to know Mycroft's parents, but Mycroft enjoys the privilege of knowing Arthur's mother, who has been so warm and welcoming, from the moment they met. She immediately made him and his children feel part of the family, for which he is both honoured and deeply grateful. Arthur and Mycroft extend the hand of love and reconciliation to Arthur's father, who is not able to be here today, and hope that he may soon find it in his heart to share in the happiness that we all feel today.'

There was the sudden sound of stifled sobbing from Arthur's side of the hall, as Mrs Brocklehurst's emotions finally got the better of her. Her daughters were quick to offer comfort but that only seemed to make matters worse and the sobs just got louder and louder. Eventually, Arthur could stand it no longer.

He jumped up and rushed over to his mother, knelt on the floor and threw his arms around her.

'I'm so sorry, Mum! So very sorry! Please don't cry,' he pleaded.

Her son's distress gave Mrs B the strength to regain control. She took a few deep, steadying breaths and pulled herself back together.

'I'm alright, Arthur, really, I'm fine. You go on, now. Mycroft's waiting.'

And he was. He had come over to stand beside them, with his hand resting on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur looked up and Mycroft offered him that hand. He took it and Mycroft pulled him up from his knees and into his arms. They held one another for a moment then broke apart and returned to their seats, as almost everyone in the room blinked back a little moisture of their own.

'Is Poppah awight?' asked Charlie, with a trembling lip.

'Yes, Charlie, he's absolutely fine,' Sara assured him, giving her charge a little squeeze of reassurance.

One way or another, this wedding was going to be quite an ordeal for everyone.

With the return of the grooms, the celebrant asked if they were OK to continue and got the red light. She took a sip of water, cleared her throat and began the next part of the ceremony.

'Mycroft and Arthur have asked me to read this excerpt from Plato's Symposium.'

There was a little frisson of curiosity amongst the members of the audience, in anticipation of the first reading. Mycroft and Arthur glanced at one another, smiled briefly, then looked away.

'Love is our best friend, our helper, and the healer of the ills that prevent us from being happy,' Mrs Lucas read. 'To understand the power of love, we must understand that our original human nature was not like it is now, but different. Human beings each had two sets of arms, two sets of legs, and two faces looking in opposite directions. There were three sexes then: one comprised of two men, called the children of the Sun; one made of two women, called the children of the Earth; and a third made of a man and a woman, called the children of the Moon.'

'Due to the power and might of these original humans, the Gods began to fear that their reign might be threatened. They sought for a way to end the humans' insolence without destroying them. It was at this point that Zeus divided the humans in half.'

'Each of us when separated, having one side only, is but the indenture of a person, and we are always looking for our other half. Those whose original nature lies with the children of the Sun are men who are drawn to other men, those from the children of the Earth are women who love other women, and those from the children of the Moon are men and women drawn to one another. And when one of us meets our other half, we are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and would not be out of the other's sight even for a moment. We pass our whole lives together, desiring that we should be melted into one, to spend our lives as one person instead of two, so that, after our death, there will be one departed soul instead of two; this is the very expression of our ancient need.'

'And the reason is that human nature was originally one and we were a whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole is called Love.'

The members of the congregation released a communal sigh, as if they had all been holding their breaths, so intently had they been listening to the reading. They all shifted in their seats, taking advantage of the pause in proceedings to get comfortable again. The children were especially grateful for this, though they had all behaved extremely well, so far. Violet had succumbed to sleep, resting in the crook of Sherlock's arm, her head lolling to one side, Cupid's Bow lips slightly parted, arms outstretched like a crucifix, completely at ease.

Meanwhile, the next part of the ceremony was about to begin, as Anthea Smith took to the stage to deliver the next reading. Elegant as ever, in a 1940's style, bottle green wool mix two-piece suit, a purple felt, saucer-shaped hat, set at a jaunty angle, and matching shoes and handbag, she stood before the audience and effortlessly commanded everyone's attention.

'Sonnet XX by William Shakespeare,' she announced, in a clear, calm voice.

 _'A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,_

 _Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;_

 _A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted_

 _With shifting change, as is false women's fashion:_

 _An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,_

 _Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;_

 _A man in hue all hues in his controlling,_

 _Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth._

 _And for a woman wert thou first created;_

 _Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,_

 _And by addition me of thee defeated,_

 _By adding one thing to my purpose nothing._

 _But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,_

 _Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.'_

During this recital, Mycroft wrapped an arm around Arthur's shoulders, pulling him close. Arthur rested his head against Mycroft's and they listened together to the words they had chosen to express their love for one another.

And then it was time for The Vows.

At the request of the Celebrant, they both stood up.

'Please face one another and take each other's hands,' she instructed.

Mycroft and Arthur turned to stand face to face and Mycroft presented both his hands, palms upwards. Arthur placed his hands into them and they both closed their fingers, each aware of the firm grip of the other.

'These are the hands of your best friend, strong and full of love for you, that are holding yours on your wedding day as you promise to love each other today, tomorrow and forever.'

As the celebrant spoke, each man's eyes were firmly fixed upon the other's and small smiles curled at the edges of their lips.

'These are the hands that will passionately love you and cherish you through the years and, with the slightest touch, will comfort you like no other.

These are the hands that will give you strength when you need it, support and encouragement to pursue your dreams, and comfort in difficult times.

And lastly, these are the hands that, even years from now, will still be reaching for yours, still giving you the same unspoken tenderness with just one touch.'

Arthur was gripped by a sudden desire to capture his partner's lips in his own and kiss him, passionately…but, with a monumental effort, he suppressed that urge and instead mouthed 'I love you'.

'Well done,' Mycroft mouthed back, correctly deducing Arthur's inner struggle and eliciting an grin from his paretner.

'You may sit down again,' said the celebrant.

The grooms resumed their seats and Arthur's sisters stepped forward to share the next reading.

'This reading comes from the Book of Pagan Rituals,' Josie announced, her Lancashire accent giving the words an added richness of texture.

' _Above you are the stars,_

 _Below you the stones._

 _As time does pass_

 _Remember…'_

Rosie took up the task, in her broader brogue.

' _Like a star should your love be constant_

 _Like a stone should your love be firm._

 _Be close, yet not too close._

 _Possess one another, yet be understanding.'_

Josie, again.

' _Have patience, each with the other_

 _For storms will come but they will go quickly._

 _Be free in giving of affection and warmth._

 _Make love often and be sensuous to one another.'_

And finally, Rosie once more.

' _Have no fear and let not the ways or words_

 _Of the unenlightened give you unease._

 _For the spirit is with you,_

 _Now and always.'_

Entirely against convention, Arthur burst into spontaneous applause and was joined by the rest of the congregation, as the two ladies giggled and curtsied to the crowd before scurrying back to their seats.

Mrs Lucas waited for the applause to die down, then announced,

'Mycroft and Arthur have chosen to read an ancient Hawaiian wedding prayer which they think captures how they feel. It's from another time and culture but, like the Plato's Symposium reading, it is a perfect expression of their love.'

While she was making the introduction, the two grooms moved to the front of the hall and stood, one each side of the celebrant's table, facing the guests but looking toward each other.

Arthur spoke first.

 _'Before we met, you and I were halves, unjoined, except in the wide rivers of our minds._

 _We were each other's distant shore, the opposite wings of a bird, the other half of a seashell._

 _We didn't know the other then, did not know our determination to keep alive the cry of one riverbank to the other._

 _We were apart, yet connected in our ignorance of each other, like two apples sharing a common tree. Remember?'_

Mycroft responded.

 _'I knew you existed long before you understood my desire to join my freedom to yours._

 _Our paths collided long enough for our indecision to be swallowed up by the greater need of love._

 _When you came to me, the sun surged towards the earth and the moon escaped from darkness to bless the union of two spirits, so alike that the creator had designed them for life's endless circle.'_

Then both together,

 _'Beloved partner, keeper of my heart's secrets, clothe yourself in the warmth of my love so the icy hand of sorrow can never touch you._

 _We are joined together like a tree to the Earth, a cloud to Sky, a wave to the Sea._

 _Through the strength of our love, together we will face whatever life may place in our path because, at this time, in this place, in this way, we declare – I love you with all my heart, with all my soul.'_

This time, nobody clapped or cheered. There was a deep hush over the room, broken only by the occasional sniff as some felt the need to dab at their eyes with a tissue.

Mycroft and Arthur moved back to stand in front of the celebrant. It was time to exchange the rings.

'Wedding rings are a symbol of commitment and love,' Mrs Lucas intoned. 'The rings are circular, like their love, with no beginning and no end. They represent what has been and what will always be. They are made of solid, sturdy material which is meant to survive years and years of hand-holding and tender caresses. Couples wear their wedding rings every day as a symbol of their love.'

Looking up from the text in the leather-bound folder, she said,

'Ring Bearers, please bring me the rings.'

Katy had been waiting for this moment for what seemed like forever. She jumped to her feet and ran to Sherlock, squealing,

'Uncle Sherlock! It's time!'

Sherlock taken by surprise. He had been miles away, inside his Mind Palace, running through his Best Man's speech. Katy's strident screeching brought him back with a jolt. Completely flustered, he bundled a startled Violet into Molly's arms and jumped to his feet, patting his pockets frantically, hunting for the ring box that Mycroft had given him earlier. Katy was, by now, jumping up and down impatiently, holding out her hand and demanding the ring that was taking far too long to appear.

At last, Sherlock found the box, in his inside breast pocket, pulled it out and fumbled it open. He hooked the ring out and stuffed it into Katy's outstretched hand. She grabbed it and raced off to Mycroft, shouting,

'I've got it, Daddy! It's here!' as the entire Hall roared with laughter.

Meanwhile, Jim had quietly taken the other ring box from his pocket, removed the ring and given it to Charlie, who carried it, carefully, over to Arthur, exchanged it for a kiss and trotted back to his seat, feeling very relieved that his part in the proceedings was over.

'Thank you,' said Mrs Lucas to Katy, as Mycroft took the ring from his daughter and pressed a kiss to her cheek, sending her, smiling, back to her seat, then frowned at his brother. Sherlock resumed his seat, scowling indignantly.

'That child is possessed,' he hissed to Molly – who was still giggling uncontrollably – as he took Violet back. 'By her father's evil spirit,' he added, for Violet's ears only.

The crowd quietened down and a buzz of anticipation settled over the hall.

'Mycroft, you will go first,' the celebrant said.

'Please, place Arthur's ring on the tip of his ring finger and repeat after me.'

 _'Arthur, I love you.'_

Mycroft repeated the vows, in a quiet but clear voice.

 _'My heart is in this ring._

 _My love is in this ring._

 _I promise to be your faithful husband, to love you through the best and the worst, through the difficult and the easy._

 _I promise you my unconditional love and I give you my unwavering trust._

 _When you look at this ring, remember that I love you always.'_

'You may slide the ring all the way onto his finger,' prompted the celebrant.

Then,

'Arthur, it's your turn.'

Arthur placed Mycroft's ring on the tip of his ring finger and held it there as he repeated his vows.

 _'Mycroft,I love you._

 _My heart is in this ring._

 _My love is in this ring_

 _I promise to be your faithful husband, to love you through the best and the worst, through the difficult and the easy._

 _I promise you my unconditional love and I give you my unwavering trust._

 _When you look at this ring, remember that I love you always.'_

'You may slide the ring all the way onto his finger,' the celebrant instructed, again. And then said the words everyone had been waiting to hear, not least the two grooms,

'By the powers vested in me by the County of Hertfordshire, I now pronounce you spouses for life. You may kiss your husband.'

As the couple pressed their lips together in a joyous embrace, the room erupted into a cacophony of jubilation.

ooOoo

It took quite a while for order to be restored, as people were out of their seats, hugging each other, running up to hug the newly-weds, hugging the celebrant and hugging each other again. But the ceremony was not over. The marriage was not formalised until the register had been signed, so Mycroft took control and ordered everyone back to their seats then announced that, while he and Arthur, Mrs Brocklehurst and Caro were signing the register, the audience would be entertained with a duet, composed and performed – as it said in the Order of Service - by his brother, Sherlock, and his nephew, William.

The signatories moved to stand behind the table, facing the crowd, so everyone could observe the signing of the register and Sherlock and William made their way onto the stage.

They picked up their violins and checked the tuning, William fine tuning minutely, when one string was found to be just slightly off. Then they stood opposite one another, and assumed the starting position, violins tucked between the jaw and clavicle and bows hovering just above the strings.

Sherlock mouthed,

'One, two, three, four…' and they were off.

It began, with William playing solo, a light, lilting pastoral melody, redolent of fields and woods and big, open skies, symbolising Mycroft's country roots. Then Sherlock joined in with a syncopated accompaniment that accentuated the lively rhythm of the melody, that had everyone tapping their feet and imagining country dances on village greens. This continued for several repetitions of the main theme, with a few innovative variations, and then the tempo gradually decreased and the key shifted from major to minor, imbuing the music with a grander, more solemn air.

For the adagio section, Sherlock took the melody, using a firm bowing technique and lots of vibrato to give the music a deeper, richer quality, while William played another melody in counterpoint, which the members of the audience correctly interpreted as being representative of the two grooms' chosen vocations – statesmanship for Mycroft and healing for Arthur – two very different themes but blending harmoniously together.

And then both musicians transitioned seamlessly into the third and final movement, which caused a ripple of laughter to spread throughout the room as people recognised it as an arrangement of the popular post-war radio programme, 'Housewives' Choice', with Sherlock taking the part usually performed by the woodwind section of the orchestra and William representing the strings.

As this jolly little tune came to a satisfactory conclusion, the musicians executed a synchronised flourish of their bows, turned to the audience and bowed low, acknowledging their appreciation.

During this virtuosi performance, Arthur, Mycroft, Mrs B and Caro had each taken their turn to sit at the celebrant's table, take up the Mont Blanc pen and sign the register, whilst the official photographer took pictures of them all, individually, in pairs and, finally, in a group. The conclusion of this ritual coincided neatly with the end of William and Sherlock's performance, so the grooms and the witness joined in the applause, too.

William, Sherlock, Caro and Mrs Brocklehurst returned to their seats.

'Dat wad bwiw-yant, Wiw-yum!' Freddie enthused. 'And you, Daddy! You id so clebber!'

'Yes, very clever, both of you!' Molly concurred, giving both William and Sherlock a congratulatory hug, trying to conceal the fact that she had blubbed all the way through the recital.

Mycroft and Arthur stood side by side in front of the table and Arthur raised his hand to command everyone's attention.

'My husband, Mycroft, and I,' he began, but had to pause as the crowd erupted at his use of the new epithet. He raised his arm again, grinning from ear to ear, but demanding order.

'My husband, Mycroft, and I,' he repeated, 'would like to thank you all for coming here today to share in our wedding celebrations. In a few moments, the wonderful staff of Colbert House will be serving champagne and canapes, but first, if you could all turn to the back of you Orders of Service, you'll find the words to the Maori love song, Pokarekare Ana – written phonetically, you'll be relieved to hear! - which we have chosen as our Wedding Anthem.'

'So, if you wouldn't all mind standing,' and he smiled and nodded to the members of the band, who all took to the stage and picked up their instruments, as the audience did as they were bid and stood, ready to sing, 'when you're ready, take it away, fellas!'

The band struck up the opening bars of the familiar tune and began the first verse, and the congregation all sang along.

' _Pokarekare ana  
Nga wai o Waiapu  
Whiti atu koe hine  
Marino ana e_

 _E hine e  
Hoki maira  
Kamate au  
I te aroha e_

 _Tuhituhi taku rita  
Taku atu taku ringi  
Kia kiti to iwi  
Raru raru ana e_

 _E hine e  
Hoki maira  
Kamate au  
I te aroha e'_

ooOoo

 **If you're wondering why Mycroft and Arthur chose that particular song as their Wedding Anthem, please check out the video on YouTube of what happened when the New Zealand Parliament passed the law to make gay weddings legal. I would post it here, but the website won't let me! :)**

 **Many thanks to 'The Knot' website for the template for Mycroft and Arthur's Order of Service. I've adapted it to make it personal to them.**


	30. Until Death - Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Quite a long chapter, this one, but there didn't seem to be a natural place to break. so here it is, in its entirety. Hope you like it!**

 **Chapter Twenty-Nine**

As the final bars of 'Pokarekare Ana' ended, all the guests burst into another spontaneous round of cheering, clapping, hugging and kissing. The main doors to the Great Hall opened and the staff, who had discreetly left the room during the signing of the register, entered carrying trays of champagne and canapes and began to circulate amongst the guests. The harpist resumed her seat at the instrument and the delicate notes of the harp floated around the room, as the congregation broke up into small, chattering groups. Members of the Holmes and Brocklehurst families, champagne glasses in hand, were corralled by the photographer and the obligatory process of taking formal photos commenced.

Molly, waiting patiently to be called upon to pose, looked up at her husband and detected in him an urge to flee the scene for a calmer, less crowded environment. She slipped her hand into his and he looked down into her eyes.

'OK?' she asked, a rhetorical question, since she knew he wasn't. 'Don't forget you can snap,' she reminded him.

'I don't want to wear it out,' he muttered, gazing warily around the room then catching Violet's eye and breaking into an adoring smile, as he jiggled her in the crook of his elbow.

'Mummy, id dis de party?' asked Freddie, hopefully, tugging at Molly's free hand.

'Not quite yet,' Molly replied. 'First the photos, then the meal, and then the party.'

'Hmm, OK,' Freddie sighed, running his finger round the inside of his collar and wishing he could take off his tie.

'Mummy, I need the toilet,' William whispered, leaning into Molly and using his hand to obscure his lips.

'Oh, yes! I need the toilet, too!' exclaimed Freddie, eliciting looks and chuckles form everyone within earshot – which was a good third of the crowd.

'Freddie…' William groaned, with a most Sherlockian eye roll.

'Can you take Freddie, too?' Molly asked her eldest son, who nodded and took hold of Freddie's hand.

'Can we use the one in the main house, though?' William asked, not relishing the prospect of the public loos in the East Wing.

'Of course,' Molly smiled. 'Quick as you can, though. They might need you for a group photo.'

William and Freddie scampered off, leaving Mummy, Daddy and sister Violet in a sea of gossiping guests.

'Here, this'll help,' soothed Molly, lifting a champagne flute from a passing tray and handing it to her husband before scooping one up for herself and taking a sip. 'Oh, that's lovely,' she sighed. 'Mycroft has excellent taste in wine.'

Sherlock sniffed the contents of his glass and savoured the bouquet.

'It's the same as we had for our wedding,' he commented, randomly.

'Well, I wouldn't really know,' Molly replied. 'I had a dry wedding, if you remember, due to this little person!' She gave Violet a playful poke in the ribs and was rewarded with a broad beaming smile and a girly giggle.

'You can make up for that today,' Sherlock replied, still gazing around the room and sipping distractedly at the bubbly. The sooner this photo session was done and dusted the better, then he could sneak off into the dining area and find some peace and solitude to run through his speech for the umpteenth time.

'I fully intend to,' Molly replied, with an emphatic nod.

'Sorry? Intend to what?' Sherlock asked.

'Never mind,' Molly smiled, standing on tip toe give him a peck on the lips.

'Mr Holmes…' the photographer's assistant called, and Sherlock passed Violet to her mother while he went and stood with Mycroft, Arthur and Jim for the first of many posed pictures.

'Housewives' Choice, brother mine?' murmured Mycroft, whilst smiling for the camera.

'Rather subtler than the Queen of Sheba,' Sherlock murmured back, steadfastly refusing to engage with the camera at all.

'Except we're husbands, not wives,' Mycroft replied.

'Same thing,' muttered Sherlock, with a smirk that was the closest he got to a smile in the entire wedding album.

ooOoo

The principal photography was concluded with a large group pose in front of the stage, taking full advantage of the extra elevation the stage afforded. Then Mycroft and Arthur moved to the entrance to the dining area and accepted the congratulations of all the guests as they filtered through into the that half of the hall, having studied the seating plan to see to which table they had been assigned. With only six tables to choose from, that process wasn't too complicated and, in no time at all, everyone was seated.

Mycroft and Arthur took their places at the top table, with Sherlock, Caro and Henrique on Mycroft's left and Arthur's mother, Jim and Josie on Arthur's right. It had been agreed well in advance that none of the children would be expected to sit at the head table and be on display for the entire meal.

So, Molly, William, Freddie and Violet, Katy, Charlie and the two nannies, and Rosie, Jack and Josh occupied one of the round tables, just to the side of the head table, close to the action but not the centre of attention. Everyone was perfectly happy with that arrangement - except Katy, who scowled for the first five minutes but soon forgot her ire once the food began to arrive.

The meal progressed smoothly, from the salmon mousse or pate de foie gras starter – with sweet potato and coconut soup, for those who preferred – through the fish course of langoustine skewers with shrimp and seaweed crackers, or cod fillet with beetroot and mushroom dressing and saffron potatoes; on to the main course of lamb chops, marinated in red wine and served with celery, garlic and rosemary sauce, or tofu and tomato tagine, all served with fresh Winter vegetables and optional rice, and concluding with the dessert course of individual chocolate puddings served with whole cherries poached in red wine and lemon juice, or coconut flan with kiwi fruit, garnished with fresh mint.

Sherlock barely touched his starter, picking at it from time to time or moving it around his plate. Despite being a leading light in the Debating Society at school, he was quietly dreading his forthcoming foray into the world of public speaking. Absentmindedly, he opened the Favour envelope that he found next to his place setting and read the card inside. It said,

'Mycroft and Arthur

have made a donation on your behalf

to the London and Manchester LGBT Switchboards.

Thank you for being our guest.'

He smiled, wryly. Arthur had certainly made his mark on Mycroft. His brother would never have thought of that idea on his own.

Caro tapped Sherlock on the arm, diverting his attention away from his inner musings, and she and Henrique engaged him in conversation about the Zika Virus Initiative that the Rocky Foundation had funded in Rio, to help children born with microcephaly, and their families.

Thanks to this clever diversion, Sherlock consumed every crumb of the four course Wedding Breakfast, without even realising. And downed a couple of small glasses of wine, which had the effect of relaxing him and relieving him of some of his inhibitions. Before he knew it, Andrew Lewis, Mycroft's valet-butler and the designated Master of Ceremonies, was announcing the Best Man's Speech.

Sherlock looked up in shock and surprise, as his full stomach performed a gymnastic flip, but Caro's gentle pat on his hand was encouraging and reassuring. He took a deep breath and climbed to his feet. He looked around at the sea of strange faces, all turned towards him in eager anticipation of the speech he was about to deliver. His stomach flipped again, as he felt a rising tide of panic and his mind instantly emptied of all coherent thought.

ooOoo

In between consuming her own meal and assisting her children with theirs, Molly had been keeping a wary eye on her husband. She breathed a sigh of relief when Caro – always a very perceptive lady – came to his aid and engaged him in conversation. Once his mind was occupied with more immediate matters, Molly observed, Sherlock stopped picking at his food and began to eat it. This let her off the hook and allowed her to concentrate on the children's needs, instead.

Violet was fiercely independent when it came to eating. She liked to be left to get on with it but she wasn't yet equipped with all the skills required to tackle the dishes on offer here, though Mrs O had kindly adapted the menu to better suit the children's tastes and skill sets. Molly had made sure to bring Violet's cover-all apron, to protect her lovely clothes from possible spillage, so she was able to pretty much leave her to her own devices, just pushing food back in the right direction when it strayed towards the edge of the high chair tray.

Freddie was still a rather messy eater – they now knew why – but as long as his food was cut into bite-sized pieces and he was given spoon, rather than a knife and fork, he could get on pretty well. And he didn't mind wearing a cover-all, even in public, so his smart clothes were protected, too.

The main priority was William, who found his sibling's eating habits very off-putting. So, he was seated across the other side of the table, between his brand-new cousin-in-law, Josh, and Nanny Michele, leaving Molly with Violet on one side and Freddie on the other, which worked out just fine.

Molly even found the time to chat with the other adults, Sara, Michele and Rosie, and to enjoy a spot of people-watching.

Arthur's sister Josie, in particular, caught her eye. The way she was looking at Sherlock – Molly new that look all too well. She called it the 'what if' look. It was the way she used to look at him, back in the day. Of course, back then, Sherlock was single but equally unattainable. After her initial clumsy approaches to the enigmatic Consulting Detective had been cleverly deflected, Molly had given up any idea of ever having a romantic relationship with the man who was now her husband and the father of her children. The fact that fate – in the form of Moriarty and his self-destructive obsession with the Holmes brothers – had intervened was still a source of awe and wonder to Molly. So, she could empathise with Josie and her 'what if' looks.

Sitting beside her sister-in-law-to-be, in the pop-up Beauty Parlour that morning, Molly learned that Josie had been given the rare privilege of meeting the real Sherlock Holmes, during their shared kidnapping experience, at the hands of Colonel Sebastian Moran and Combat 18.

Molly had never heard the full story of what happened when Sherlock and John went off to Lancashire in search of the missing Arthur, the previous summer. She only knew what Mycroft had told her which was only the basic facts. Sherlock, typically, refused to talk about it, even after he got his voice back. It was past, it was done, it was ancient history. But the terrifying incident had clearly had a significant effect on Josie. And she couldn't stop talking about it.

 _She started by apologising for putting herself in harm's way and making it necessary for Sherlock to endanger himself in order to save her._

' _Oh, my husband doesn't need a reason to endanger himself, he does it for fun,' Molly replied, flippantly, and instantly regretted her tone as Josie's face fell. 'Sorry,' Molly exclaimed, 'that came out a bit wrong, I didn't mean to infer that your well-being is unimportant.'_

' _No, no, I know you didn't,' Josie was anxious to reassure her. 'But Sherlock really did save Arthur's life - and mine - when he bargained with Colonel Moran for our freedom. I honestly believe that Moran intended to kill us.'_

' _I'll be honest with you, Josie,' Molly replied, no longer remotely frivolous, 'I have no idea what happened last summer. Sherlock has never told me. But I'd be really grateful if you would.'_

 _Meeting Molly's eye, via the large wall mirrors, Josie recognised the earnest nature of that request, which imparted a degree of insight into what it must be like to be married to someone like Sherlock Holmes. It was no walk in the park. She hesitated, momentarily, before launching into a no-holes-barred account of her terrifying abduction and unexpected reprieve, by Combat 18 commander, Colonel Moran._

' _I'll never forget the way he taunted them, even when he had an assault rifle pointed at his head. He was utterly fearless, Molly. He put up with all that man-handling - they dragged him around like a rag doll – and he never resisted or fought back,' Josie related. 'I don't know what he said to Moran to persuade him to let me and Arthur go but, having done that, he gave away the fact that he still had his phone by sending a text from the spot where we were dumped. So, the search and rescue people were able to find us before we both died from exposure. But any chance of tracking your husband, via his phone, was lost.'_

 _As Molly digested all this information, she recalled how she had behaved toward Sherlock when he arrived back at Colbert House, covered in bruises and in great pain from the battering he had received from Moran's heavies and, for the second time that day, she felt pangs of guilt for misjudging him._

' _I gave him such a hard time when he got home, you know,' she sighed, wistfully, 'for not thinking! But, actually, he was thinking – about everyone but himself, as usual! Which, I suppose, is just the way he is.'_

 _Josie gave a wry smile and replied,_

' _Oh, don't feel bad, Molly. If I were in your place, I'd have given him a bollocking, too!' And both women chuckled in sisterly solidarity._

As the meal came to a natural conclusion, Molly glanced over to see how Sherlock was faring. He was still deeply involved with Caro and Henrique when MC Andrew raised his voice above the general clamour of the room and announced the first of several speeches, that of the Best Man. Molly saw Sherlock start and then get slowly to his feet, fiddling with the pack of 'telegrams' – cue cards with congratulatory messages transcribed onto them by Mrs Willis – that Andrew had placed on the table in front of him. She watched as he gazed around the room.

'Er…ladies and gentlemen, family and…friends and…' he began, haltingly

And his eyes went blank.

'Snap the band,' Molly whispered, willing her thoughts to fly across the room, to encourage and reassure him. 'Snap. The. Band.'

After what seemed like an interminably long and pregnant pause, during which the audience began to fidget, rustle and cough, Molly saw Caro lean in towards Sherlock and whisper 'Telegrams'. He instantly came to life and looked at collection of cards in his hand.

'Ah! Yes! These…things!' he exclaimed, then addressed the room. 'Here are some messages from people who, for one reason or another, couldn't be bothered to turn up on the day. Apparently, not even the lure of one of Mrs O's delicious meals was sufficient to tempt them. Well, their loss,' he huffed and scanned the contents of the top card.

'Harry Burton?' he muttered, turning to Mycroft and continuing in a very audible stage whisper. 'He was your roommate, your first year at Cambridge. You couldn't stand each other!'

'Just read the cards, please, Sherlock,' Mycroft hissed.

'He broke my Walkman, that Christmas Mummy invited him to stay,' Sherlock hissed back. 'And I got the blame!'

'That was nearly thirty years ago, for God's sake,' Mycroft growled, beginning to regret choosing his brother for this particular role, as the sniggers and titters from the audience began to increase in volume. 'Just get on with it, will you?'

Sherlock frowned but did as he was bid and read out the messages from the cards, pausing occasionally to raise his eyebrows or give a disgruntled huff at one or another particularly saccharine salutation until he came to the bottom of the pack and could discard the offending objects, tossing them disdainfully onto the table.

Fiddling with his cuffs, he looked out again, at the crowd, took a deep breath and began.

'Many of you here today are probably wondering why my brother chose me to be his Best Man. I mean, we haven't always seen eye to eye, to put it mildly, and some of you will be well aware of the many problems with which I have presented Mycroft, over the years since our parents died and he found himself – at the tender age of 27 – holding down a very responsible job, running this house and Estate and saddled with a wayward little brother, hell bent on self-destruction.'

He paused there, momentarily, to let that little bombshell sink in, then went on.

'I think you'll all agree that this tells you a great deal about the sort of person my brother is – bossy, arrogant, over-bearing, interfering… No, sorry! That was the first draft…'

He gave a self-effacing, lop-sided grin and everyone in the room visibly relaxed, not least of all Mycroft himself and, of course, Molly. She caught his eye and gave a little nod which he acknowledged with a brief smile before continuing.

'The truth is, if anyone were to find themselves in such a situation, my brother was probably the very best man for the job. He took the reins of his new responsibilities and he kicked on. At the time, many country estates like this one were being broken up and sold off, in order to pay the Death Duties and balance the books; or being gifted to the National Trust and turned into tourist attractions and living museums. Mycroft, however, saw the potential of diversification and the many business opportunities that this could yield and he just got on and did it.

All the staff here, and the tenant farmers, and the residents of Colbert St Mary will tell you, they feared for their homes and their livelihoods when our parents passed away so suddenly, leaving a callow youth in charge. And they will all agree that it is Mycroft's foresight and business acumen they have to thank for their present level of success and security. That and his loyalty. Because Mycroft is, beyond doubt, the most loyal person I know – loyal to his country, to his friends, to his staff and to his family – yes, and especially to me.'

He turned to look at Mycroft, who had been staring, expressionless, straight ahead whilst Sherlock heaped these accolades upon him.

'Mycroft, I've never really thanked you for all the time, effort and persistence you've put in, over the years, trying to keep me on the straight and narrow. Sadly, it's probably your greatest failure – your only failure, in fact. I never made it easy for you and I'm sure there were – are - times when you contemplated throwing in the towel. The fact that you never did can only be described as a triumph of hope over reality.

So, I'm taking this opportunity, in front of all these witnesses – so I can't ever deny it at some point in the future – to thank you for everything you have done for me and my family – but especially for me because that's the sort of self-obsessed arsehole I am.'

He turned back to face the room, cleared his throat and took a sip of water, as everyone chuckled in amusement. When the laughter subsided, he resumed.

'But my brother does have one thing for which to thank me – yes, only one, unfortunately, but it is a big one – as it was I who introduced him to the love of his life.' He leaned forward and gestured toward Arthur, raising his eyebrow.

'Yes, Arthur and I met in rather unfortunate circumstances – I believe I head-butted him, knocking him unconscious, whilst escaping from a top security government institution – but, I must confess, I don't remember very much about that. However, I then most generously succumbed to a second bout of temporary insanity in order to facilitate a meeting between my brother and the person whom I instinctively knew to be his perfect life partner.

So, yes, I take full credit for being the catalyst for the chemical reaction that has brought us all here today and, therefore, I ask you all to raise your glasses to…me!'

As half the room began to rise to its feet, glasses in hand, the other half broke into ripples of laughter and everyone looked at Sherlock in a whole new light. But he was oblivious to that. He picked up his glass of champagne and held it aloft, proclaiming,

'Ladies and gentlemen – and children – please rise and raise your glasses to Mycroft Holmes!'

This time, everyone stood and did as they were bid.

'Mycroft Holmes!' they all exclaimed.

Mycroft stood up to accept the acclaim of the crowd and turned to his Best Man.

'Thank you, Sherlock. That was…' he paused momentarily. 'You forgot to mention that you also rescued Arthur from certain death at the hands of terrorists, at no small risk to yourself.'

'Well, this isn't about me, is it?' Sherlock replied, with a shrug, at which point, Mycroft simply clasped his brother in a hug which had the whole room cheering and brought tears to many an eye, including Molly's. She looked across at her husband, as he was released from his brother's embrace and stepped back, looking slightly discombobulated by such an uncharacteristic display of affection.

She mouthed,

'Well done.'

'Daddy did a dud talk, didn't he, Mummy!' exclaimed Freddie, clapping enthusiastically.

'Yes, he did, darling, a very good talk,' Molly replied.

Then the room settled down again and Jim stood up to deliver the next speech, in praise of Arthur.

ooOoo

'Daddy, what's 'temperlelly imsamerty'?'Freddie asked, as Sherlock helped him out of his formal attire and into his Princess Elsa dress.

The family had returned to their bedrooms for some respite from the celebrations, between the formal meal and the dancing. Violet was taking a nap in her travel cot, in Molly and Sherlock's room, so the rest of the family were chilling out in William and Freddie's room and Freddie was getting changed into his party frock.

Molly looked up from pouring tea – kindly provided, on a tray, by Mrs O and her ladies – and bit her lower lip as she waited to hear how Sherlock would deal with that question.

'It's when you feel really upset about something, so much so that you can't bear to think about it, so you close yourself off and hide inside your head until you feel better,' Sherlock replied, without hesitation.

William, sitting on the bed reading a book about bee husbandry, said,

'Was that when you grew a beard, Daddy, and came to live here for a while?'

'Yes,' Sherlock replied, and smiled apologetically at his oldest child.

William nodded and smiled back, pleased that he had cleared up that long-standing mystery, and went straight back to his book.

Molly handed her husband a cup of tea and, slipping her arm around his neck, pressed an affectionate kiss to his smooth cheek.

'No need for beards today,' she murmured and he smiled back, taking the tea and sipping it, gratefully.

Sherlock was relieved that his moment in the spotlight was behind him. In fact, he had now fulfilled all his Best Man duties and could relax and enjoy his wife and children enjoying the party. Personally, he'd be happy to call it a day and stay upstairs until tomorrow but he knew that the rest of the Hooper-Holmes crew were looking forward to the fun part of the proceedings, having sat, as good as gold, through the boring bits. The least he could do was accompany them.

Tea drunk and spirits revived, the family returned to the Great Hall, where chairs had been arranged around the perimeter, along with small, round tables, some of which had already been occupied by guests returning to the party from freshening up in their rooms. The sound system was playing 1980s pop music and the free bar was doing a brisk trade. Guests were standing in groups or milling about, chatting, and waiting for the band to take to the stage and to begin the evening festivities with the happy couple's First Dance. In the mean time, the waiting staff were circulating with trays, bearing glasses of pink champagne.

The wedding cake had been wheeled in and placed on display, ready to be cut later, and served to the revellers. It was a traditional layered Spring Wedding confection, constructed from three rich fruit cakes, decreasing in size from bottom to top, covered in marzipan and white Royal icing and decorated with white and yellow handmade Royal icing flowers. Each of the top two layers was supported by four mini Doric columns.

The top tier was made without nuts and marzipan, for those who might suffer from allergies, but, otherwise, all three cakes contained the same rich ingredients, including ground or blanched almonds, nutmeg, dried cranberries and apricots, mixed spice and cocoa powder, orange and lemon zest, glace cherries and brandy. Mrs O's daughter, Elizabeth had excelled herself, yet again.

As the Hooper-Holmes family entered the Great Hall, Freddie spotted the cake, immediately.

'Ooo, Mummy, tan I do an' see de tate?' he pleaded.

'Yes, darling, but just looking, no touching,' she reminded him and, as he raced away across the dance floor, she called after him,

'And definitely NO LICKING!'

Violet kicked her feet vigorously, demanding to be set down on the floor, where she grabbed Sherlock's hand and pointed in the direction of the open dance floor. She was just on the cusp of independent walking, having taken a few wobbly steps on several occasions, but this big space, with no hand holds or soft landings, was not the place to be experimental so Daddy's hands were required. Like any obedient servant, Sherlock obliged and held his daughter's hands while she tottered around the wide and empty expanse of sprung wooden flooring that was just demanding to be explored.

Molly and William staked their claim to one of the round tables and assembled enough chairs for everyone in their party, then sat down. Josh, Arthur's nephew, came over immediately. He and William had made one another's acquaintance at the dinner table and were now firm allies. Being the same age probably helped cement that bond. Josh and William chatted for a while and then went off together on some mission or other.

'Stay in the Hall, boys,' Molly instructed them. She didn't want them wandering off on their own, around the house, when all the adults were in the East Wing.

Molly's eye, scanning around the room, spotted Mycroft and Arthur standing together at the back of the Hall, champagne flutes in hand, chatting with a group of Arthur's friends. They looked deliriously happy. She smiled, fondly, as Mycroft casually brushed his hand down Arthur's back and slid his arm around his new husband's waist. Arthur responded by draping an arm over Mycroft's shoulders. She was so happy for them, to have finally tied the knot, after everything they had been through. They couldn't have wished for a lovelier day.

ooOoo

Freddie, Katy, Charlie and Jack, gathered at the wedding cake, had shared their opinions of the grand confection and were now looking around for alternative entertainment. Freddie began to skip and twirl on the dancefloor

'What's he wearin'?' Jack exclaimed, pointing at Freddie's outfit.

'It's an Elsa dress,' Katy informed him. 'Haven't you seen 'Frozen'?'

'No. What's that?' Jack asked.

'It's a film about a pwincess wiv magic powers,' Charlie explained. 'She can fweeze fings. Fweddie knows all the songs.' Charlie was Freddie's biggest fan. 'He'll sing them for you, if you like.'

Films about princesses – even magic ones – were not really Jack's style.

'No, that's OK,' he replied.

'Let's dance, then,' Katy insisted and, taking Jack by the hand, marched them both onto the dance floor and began to jig about.

Jack was a little dubious at first but when Charlie joined the fray, he gave a shrug and began to hop around, too. Taking advantage of the adults' reticence to take to the floor before the First Dance, the children were letting their hair down.

Violet spotted the other children dancing and started to bounce, rhythmically, on the spot. Sherlock turned her around to face him and danced with her, shuffling his feet and bobbing his head to the beat. Violet chuckled with delight and nodded her head, too, but in such an awkward, uncoordinated way that Molly, watching from the side-lines, dissolved into a fit of giggles.

'They are so cute together, aren't they?' came a voice to her right. Molly looked up to see Josie standing beside her.

'Sherlock adores her,' Molly declared and smiled as Sherlock picked Violet up and waltzed her around the floor, eliciting even more giggles. 'And she knows it, too! He'll have to toughen up when she gets to be a teenager or she'll run rings around him.'

'Mind if I join you?' Josie asked.

'Be my guest,' Molly replied, gesturing to a chair, and Josie sat down.

'I feel a bit guilty about this morning,' she said, without preamble.

Molly's expression reflected her surprise.

'What on earth for?' she exclaimed, accepting a glass of bubbly from a passing waiter.

'Thank you,' Josie said to the waiter, taking a glass herself and turning back to Molly. 'I wouldn't want you to worry, every time Sherlock goes off on one of his cases. Maybe I shouldn't have told you so much about what happened that night.'

Molly laughed, ironically. 'Oh, Josie, believe me, I couldn't worry any more than I do. But I know the kind of man he is. And it's the _man_ I married – the whole package. He's never going to be Mr Normal.'

Her words didn't seem to make Josie feel any better. Molly leaned towards her, conspiratorially.

'Honestly, Josie, now I know the details, I feel so much better about him doing what he did. When I first heard that he'd charged into that derelict hospital building without waiting for back up – he never waits for back up – I was furious. I even accused him of not caring about our children! I should have trusted his judgement… Oh, look at that idiot!' Molly giggled, distracted by the shenanigans taking place on the dancefloor.

Sherlock, cavorting around with Violet, had attracted the attention of the other children, who came over to join in the fun. Freddie climbed onto one of Sherlock's feet, hugging his leg for support, and Charlie di likewise on the other foot. Sherlock proceeded to lurch around the floor, dragging his legs with their extra load, while Katy and Jack skipped around him, shrieking with laughter and demanding their turn.

Between snorts of mirth, Josie declared,

'He's a brilliant dad, isn't he! It's hard to believe that's the same person I met last summer. He's totally different when he's working.'

'Yes,' Molly agreed. 'He's a consummate compartmentaliser. He has this 'building' in his head – he calls it his Mind Palace – and he sorts things into different rooms to keep everything separate and organised. But he does that in the real world, too. He very much lives in the moment. It's just the way he is.'

As Molly was speaking, the band appeared through the Hall's main doors and made their way to the stage, picking up their instruments and switching on all the equipment. The lead singer approached the microphone and tapped it to check it was working then announced,

'Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the floor Arthur and Mycroft, for their First Dance as a married couple!'

Sherlock and the children yielded the floor as Mycroft and Arthur stepped onto it and moved to take up their starting position, in the centre, in the closed hold of the Tango. Then the musicians launched into the opening bars of the happy couple's chosen song and the two men began to dance.

' _When your legs don't work like they used to before_ _  
_ _And I can't sweep you off of your feet_ _  
_ _Will your mouth still remember the taste of my love_ _  
_ _Will your eyes still smile from your cheeks'_

The dancers moved around the floor in perfect synchrony, performing the steps of the ballroom tango with an elegance and grace that took away the breath of all those watching. Even Sherlock acknowledged, with a grudging smile, that Mycroft's superiority as a dancer and a teacher was beyond doubt. Arthur may have opened up Mycroft to a world beyond Whitehall and Hertfordshire but Mycroft had tutored his partner in the finer things of life, including ballroom dancing.

' _And darling I will be loving you 'til we're 70  
And baby my heart could still fall as hard as 23  
And I'm thinking 'bout how people fall in love in mysterious ways  
Maybe just the touch of a hand  
Oh me, I fall in love with you every single day  
And I just wanna tell you I am.'_

The choice of music was obviously Arthur's. Sherlock very much doubted that Mycroft even knew who the original author of the piece was – he wasn't too sure himself – but the choreography was a perfect match to the sensuous sweep of the score.

' _So honey now  
Take me into your loving arms  
Kiss me under the light of a thousand stars  
Place your head on my beating heart  
I'm thinking out loud  
Maybe we found love right where we are.'_

As the song moved into the second verse, with a smoothness that belied the complexity of the transition, the lead switched from Mycroft to Arthur and the couple performed the exact same sequence of closed and open promenades, interspersed with natural and reverse turns, all executed on flexed knees with no rise and fall, creating a smooth flow of movement around the room.

' _When my hair's all but gone and my memory fades  
And the crowds don't remember my name  
When my hands don't play the strings the same way, mm  
I know you will still love me the same_

 _'Cause honey your soul can never grow old, it's evergreen  
Baby your smile's forever in my mind and memory_

 _I'm thinking 'bout how people fall in love in mysterious ways  
Maybe it's all part of a plan  
I'll just keep on making the same mistakes  
Hoping that you'll understand.'_

As the second chorus began, Mycroft took back the lead and the dance steps increased in complexity. The couple performed a sequence of natural and open promenades, linked by swivel and rock turns. Mycroft swept his partner around the floor, executing complex and rapid changes of direction and pace, adding syncopated turns, head flicks, Spanish drags and back cortes, to vary the pattern and take the audience by surprise. They had spent a great deal of time rehearsing this dance and it showed, as the couple moved as one, covering every inch of the floor.

' _But baby now  
Take me into your loving arms  
Kiss me under the light of a thousand stars  
Place your head on my beating heart  
I'm thinking out loud  
That maybe we found love right where we are, oh_

 _So baby now  
Take me into your loving arms  
Kiss me under the light of a thousand stars  
Oh darling, place your head on my beating heart  
I'm thinking out loud  
That maybe we found love right where we are_

 _Oh maybe we found love right where we are  
And we found love right where we are.'_

As the song came to an end, the couple swept around in a dizzying display of varied turns, until Mycroft spun Arthur across in front of him, ending with both men standing side by side, presenting to the audience with open arms.

There was a brief silence, while everyone processed what they had just experienced then the whole room erupted with loud cheers and whoops and the two men bowed low, first to the crowd and then to each other, smiling broadly. As First Dances went, it had been quite spectacular.

The band launched into its second song and everyone piled onto the dance floor. Arthur and Mycroft moved to one side and Mycroft checked the time.

'I think we ought to cut the cake after this piece, don't you? Then go and change into our travel clothes,' he suggested to Arthur, mindful that they had to be at the airport two hours before take-off in order to check in. And they wanted a little time alone with the children, to say goodbye before disappearing for a week-long honeymoon at a secret location.

'Sounds like a plan,' Arthur agreed. 'You go and organise the cake and I'll have a word with Andrew about making an announcement.'

They each went their separate ways.

ooOoo

'Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention,' Andrew announced, taking the place of the lead singer at the microphone. 'If you wouldn't mind moving to the edge of the dance floor, I am delighted to invite you to witness the 'Cutting of the Cake'!'

The guests all retreated to the perimeter of the dancing space and Mrs Orgreave, who had been behind the scenes all day, working her magic in the kitchen, made her public debut, pushing the trolley bearing the cake to a prominent position in front of the stage, accompanied by the 'ooh's and 'ah's of an appreciative audience. Mycroft and Arthur followed her and stood, side by side, next to the trolley.

'Dear friends and family,' Mycroft began. 'Arthur and I would like to thank you all, once again, for sharing this wonderful day with us. You have all helped to make it the most memorable and enjoyable day that it has been. My husband and I…' slight pause for the loud cheer that rose up from the rather excitable crowd at his use of that epithet '…will be taking our leave, shortly, to embark on what I am unreliably informed by my brother is an entirely redundant honeymoon, since Arthur and I have been cohabiting for quite some time now.

But I would like to point out that we have never actually been on holiday together, so this will be a new experience for us both.'

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. He still didn't see the point. But then he hadn't seen the point of getting married in the first place or the point of St Valentine's Day or even the point of romantic entanglements of any kind, until fairly recently. He glanced at Molly, who was smiling but, he thought, perhaps just a little wistfully. Maybe he'd miscalculated there, too. He should talk to her about honeymoons and get her honest opinion.

'However, before we bid you all farewell and leave you to continue your revels, there is a small ritual we must perform upon this beautiful cake, designed and created by local baker, Elizabeth Orgreave.'

There was a loud round of applause for the cake and its absent creator.

'But first, it would be remiss of me if I failed to acknowledge the person who has contributed most to the success of today. I can say, with complete confidence, that we all owe a huge debt of gratitude to our catering staff. The food, today, has been quite exquisite.'

Mycroft and Arthur both turned towards Mrs Orgreave and Mycroft announced,

'I give you our wonderful chef, Mrs Orgreave!'

The crowd erupted again into tumultuous applause as Mrs O blushed and smiled and gave several self-conscious little bows.

'And I'm sure Mrs O will pass on our appreciation to all the catering staff,' Mycroft concluded. 'But the moment we have all been waiting for has finally arrived - the cutting of the cake!' he announced, dramatically. 'So, in time honoured style, Arthur and I will perform this ritual together.'

There was a low rumble as some sections of the crowd responded to the imagined innuendo in that remark but Mycroft and Arthur were too busy arranging their hands on the ornamental knife that had been brought out of the family Sterling silver collection specifically for this purpose. They laid the knife blade across the bottom layer of the cake and, together, made the first incision.

Everyone cheered and clapped and Arthur and Mycroft smiled at one another. Then, as the cake was wheeled away into the kitchen, to be cut up before being served to the guests, the happy couple collected their children from the nannies and disappeared into the main house to change into their travelling clothes and have a little down time with Katy and Charlie before departing for the airport.

It had been a glorious day, full of joy and laughter, and one they would never forget for as long as they lived.

ooOoo

AN: The tango that Mycroft and Arthur performed is the American style ballroom tango, not the more flamboyant Argentine Tango, just in case anyone was wondering. :) And the music, if you didn't already know, was 'Thinking Out Loud' by Ed Sheeran.


	31. Until Death - Chapter Thirty

**I know it's been a long time...far too long! But I hope you'll find this chapter was worth waiting for and forgive me for keeping you in suspense all these weeks!**

 **Chapter Thirty**

'Three cheers for the happy couple!' yelled one of the guests, enthusiastically, and all those assembled on the gravel driveway complied as the car carrying the newly-weds pulled away. The red tail lights of the limo receded around the sweeping curve of the driveway and the guests turned and began to filter back inside the ballroom, laughing and chattering, keen to resume their celebrations, even in the absence of the couple whose wedding this was.

'Mummy, is it bedtime yet?' William asked, tugging on Molly's hand, a ragged edge to his voice which testified to the long and busy day.

It was seven o'clock – and, indeed, 'bedtime' according to the Hooper-Holmes family regime. Katy and Charlie, having waved a tearful goodbye to Daddy and Poppah, had already been whisked away to the Nursery by the two nannies. Molly looked around at her children and noted they all appeared a little worse for wear. Even Freddie, usually a bundle of energy, was beginning to wilt.

'Yes, darling, I think it is definitely time for bed,' Molly agreed, stroking William's unruly curls and smiling, sympathetically. She turned to Sherlock for confirmation just in time to catch an exchange of intriguing glances between her husband and Caro.

'Yes,' Sherlock exclaimed. 'But perhaps Caro and Henrique would like to put the children to bed tonight?'

Sherlock's suggestion was greeted with enthusiastic nods from both surrogate grandparents. Molly suspected this was a pre-hatched plot between the three of them but she was a little dubious about the idea.

'Oh…erm...Well, that's a wonderful idea and I know William and Freddy would love that but I'm not so sure about Violet,' she replied, looking at her daughter perched in the crook of Sherlock's elbow, her head resting sleepily on his shoulder, hugging her favourite toy, Wib, to her chest. She was such a Daddy's Girl and, unlike her two older brothers, she barely knew the couple from Brazil, even though they were her godparents.

'Well, let's see, shall we?' Sherlock replied, passing Violet over to Henrique. Everyone watched with anticipation, while she adjusted her position in the other man's arms and closed her eyes, contentedly. Violet had clearly taken quite a shine to her godfather, even on such short acquaintance. Or perhaps she was just too tired to care who performed bedtime duties as long as someone did.

'I think that settles the issue,' Sherlock observed, and Molly conceded.

'Thank you so much, both of you! That would be lovely, wouldn't it, boys?'

William and Freddie were more than happy with the arrangement. Goodnight kisses were exchanged between parents and children and then Caro and Henrique left the noisy ballroom, taking the children with them.

Molly turned to Sherlock and, standing on tip-toe, pressed a kiss to his cheek.

'Thank you, darling,' she breathed. 'I know you'd rather be anywhere else than here but perhaps we could have just one dance…?'

Sherlock inclined his head toward Molly to receive the kiss, with a conspiratorial smile.

Having devoted all their attention to the children, he and Molly had barely spoken to one another all evening, let alone danced together. When had they last danced together? He couldn't remember.

'At least one dance,' he replied. 'But not here.'

Taking her by the hand, he led her around the edge of the crowded ballroom – the guest numbers swelled by tenant farmers and Estate staff invited to the 'evening do' – and into the corridor that led back to the main entrance hall, on the private side of the house. But then, to Molly's surprise, he turned right, not left, and took her past the service lift, which gave access to the underground event kitchen, and on towards the rear of the house.

She followed him, almost running to keep up with his long-striding gait. At the end of the dimly-lit passageway, he opened a door and stepped through then paused to allow Molly take in the scene that greeted them.

They were in the Edwardian Orangery, with its glass walls, vaulted roof and marble floor tiles. As this part of the main house was adjacent to the ball room, Molly could still hear the music from the party but it was muted and much easier on the ear. The room was lit by candles, twinkling from a huge antique crystal chandelier, suspended from the apex of the ceiling by a sturdy chain. Positioned under the chandelier, in a pool of soft light in the centre of the room, was a vintage glass-topped table and two metal-framed chairs. And, on the table, was an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne and two champagne flutes.

'Happy St. Valentine's Day,' Sherlock whispered, turning to Molly and taking her in his arms. He whirled her around the room, in a Viennese Waltz, to the music from the Great Hall next door.

ooOoo

Mycroft and Arthur gave a final wave through the rear window of the limo then settled back in their seats, each breathing a sigh of relief. They were married! It was done!

It had been a happy day but a hectic one and they were both relieved to be alone together, at last. They glanced, briefly, into each other's eyes as their hands met and their fingers entwined.

'Spouses for life', the celebrant had said.

'Until death do us part,' they had replied, barely above a whisper.

They smiled at the shared memory and leaned in for a tender kiss.

At the end of the driveway, Mr Orgreave, the chauffeur, turned right and drove through the village, the windshield wipers slapping rhythmically from side to side. That was the only blot on an otherwise perfect day. The rain that had fallen relentlessly for the previous month had not let up, even for this special occasion, forcing the guests to resort to wellingtons and raincoats. But it had not marred the joy of the day. And in a few hours, the newly-weds would be in southern Italy, beginning their married life with a week-long honeymoon.

The wedding car approached the ancient stone bridge in the centre of the village. The normally gentle, meandering river had been transformed by the unusually heavy and prolonged precipitation into a raging torrent and here, where the four-hundred-year-old bridge funnelled the water though its narrow single arch, the roar of the racing water could be heard even inside the car, through the bullet-proof glass of the windows.

The chauffeur slowed to check for oncoming traffic, as the bridge was only wide enough for vehicles to cross in one direction at a time. There was nothing approaching from the other side so the driver slipped the car into first gear and eased forward onto the bridge.

Even as he did so, there was strange grating, growling, rumbling sound and the car shook and shuddered. Looking out through the windscreen, Frank Orgreave watched in stunned surprise as the low parapet on the left side of the river crossing seemed to split, in a zig-zag path, along the cracks between the blocks of masonry. But as the split reached the roadway, it didn't stop. It continued on, across the tarmac surface and the bridge cracked in two, right across the apex.

The car continued to creep forwards, the driver transfixed by the strange events unfolding around him. As the front wheels rolled over the crack in the road, the rear end of the vehicle seemed to dip and twist.

'Drive on! Drive on!' yelled Arthur and Mycroft together, as the urgency of the situation became clear.

The driver was shaken from his shocked stupor by the voices of his passengers yelling from the back seat, but it was already too late. The sheer force of the current had weakened the underside of the bridge's construction and the weight of the wedding car was the final straw. As the bridge split, the roadway collapsed into the roiling water, dragging the vehicle with it. It plunged backwards into the maelstrom, to be swept away, downstream.

As the car hit the water, all three occupants were pinned to their seats by the force of gravity but Arthur was quick to recover, his Survival Training, courtesy of the British Army, kicking in. The two greatest threats to life in this type of situation were being trapped inside a submerged vehicle and Cold Water Shock. He knew what he had to do.

Leaning away from Mycroft, he slammed his hand down on the two switches in the passenger armrest, causing both the rear door window and the privacy screen, separating the front and back of the car, to slide open. The most immediate effect of this was the sudden increase in volume of the rushing water to a deafening roar, as the barrier between inside and outside the vehicle was removed.

'What are you doing?' shouted Mycroft, still in shock at this sudden and unimaginable turn of events.

'Opening the window while we still have power,' Arthur yelled back, as the car rocked and spun in the rushing current, the weight of the engine pulling the front end of the vehicle down towards the river bed, causing the lighter back end to rear upwards, like one side of a see-saw

'But that will let the water in!' Mycroft shouted in alarm.

'The waters getting in anyway, Mycroft!' Arthur shouted back. 'Look at the floor!'.

Mycroft did so and, sure enough, he saw water seeping into the vehicle around the edges of the doors and through the base frame itself. This was not necessarily a bad thing, Arthur knew. If the vehicle filled up with water gradually, it would allow all their bodies to acclimatise to the low water temperature, reducing the risk of Cold Water Shock, which occurred when bodies were plunged suddenly into chilled water.

Even as Mycroft took in the desperate nature of their situation, the ambient noise suddenly dipped as the waterlogged engine cut out. Seconds later, all the lights inside the vehicle died, too, as the electrics were overwhelmed, and they were plunged into darkness. It was also suddenly apparent that the car had paused in its wild progress along the river – the undercarriage caught against some submerged object, anchoring it to the spot.

Arthur turned to Mycroft and, grasping him by both shoulders to focus his attention, shouted urgently in his ear.

'Stay inside the car as long as possible. That is your best chance of rescue. When the water gets too high, get out through the window and let the river take you, feet first and on your back! Don't fight the current. Go with the flow - feet first, remember! - but angle towards the bank. When you reach the bank, find something secure and hang on tight. Got that?'

'Yes, yes! But what about you?' Mycroft yelled back, alarmed less at the prospect of going into the river himself than by what fate might befall his newly-minted husband.

'I'll be right behind you,' Arthur growled and pressed a brief but bruising kiss to Mycroft's lips.

'Now,' he resumed, back to the matter in hand, simultaneously unfastening both Mycroft's and his own seat belts, 'take off your jacket – it'll only weigh you down - but keep your shoes on.'

By keeping his shoes on, Mycroft would be able to use his feet as buffers against other objects caught in the rapid flow, as he navigated his way toward the bank.

Mycroft complied with the instruction then Arthur slid off the seat and pushed him along the polished leather to the opposite side of the vehicle, towards the open window, where the rushing river raged ominously, mere inches below the window sill. Mycroft clung tight to the grab rail as the water level inside the car rose steadily, inch by inch.

ooOoo

In the centre of Colbert St Mary, in the Village Hall, another wedding reception was in full swing, complete with loud pop music and a free bar. The groom, local garage mechanic, Jason Roberts, was outside, in the shelter provided by the Parish Council for smokers, since smoking had been banned in enclosed public places several years before. The fact that the shelter was itself a partially enclosed space did not seem to matter, since only smokers used it and were hardly likely to accuse the Parish Council of exposing them to passive smoking.

However, none of this concerned Jason Roberts. He was simply enjoying a relaxing cigarette with his Best Man, Alfie Barnes, away from the raucous celebrations going on inside the Hall. Despite the persistent rain and the cold February air, it was good to escape the noise and bustle of the wedding party for a few precious moments of peace and quiet contemplation.

Jason took a deep draw on his cigarette and paused to admire the gold band adorning his ring finger. He and his bride, Alice Jackson, had been childhood friends since they were pupils at the village Primary school, where Alice now worked as a Teaching Assistant. But their friendship had blossomed into romance through their shared vocation as part-time volunteers with the local Fire and Rescue Service. The local Fire Station was, as in most rural areas, entirely staffed by volunteers who all lived in or within a one mile radius of the village, and many of them were guests at Jason and Alice's wedding.

Best Man Alfie looked out at the drizzling rain.

'Just think, Jay, this time tomorrow, you'll be lyin' on a beach in Torremolinos, soaking up the sun,' he said, with a wistful sigh.

'Yes, replied the groom. 'Or maybe stuck in Departures, on standby, because the airline over-booked our flight.'

Alfie laughed and flicked his cigarette butt out into the rain-sodden darkness. Good old Jay, always looked on the bright side.

'Are you done? It's fuckin freezin' out 'ere!' he exclaimed.

Jason took a final pull on his cigarette…

And then they heard it – a loud grating, grinding rumble, unlike any sound they had ever heard before, coming from the direction of the river.

'What the fuck was that?!' gasped Alfie.

'I think it's the bridge,' Jason declared, the shock evident on his face.

Both men were momentarily frozen then suddenly galvanised into action, hurling themselves out of the smokers' shelter and charging up the road, toward the source of that ominous noise. As they came to the top of the lane and turned onto the main street, they could see a small, rather agitated crowd gathering in the road, up by the bridge.

'What's happened?' yelled Jason, as he approached the knot of villagers.

One of the crowd turned, pointing frantically in the direction of the river's flow.

'It's His Lordship!' the by-stander yelled back. 'The bridge broke and the car's gone into the river!'

Jason and Alfie pushed their way through the huddle of concerned on-lookers and came to the parapet of the still-standing half of the road bridge. Looking down into the roiling torrent, they saw the limousine bobbing and ducking in the racing water, its rearward-facing head lights glowing bright in the dark night. Snatching his mobile phone from his back pocket, Jason flicked open his Contacts and pressed the icon at the top of the list.

At the same time, the partly-submerged vehicle seemed to catch on some invisible obstruction on the river bed and it came to a shuddering, rocking halt. The flood waters parted and poured past either side of the car then continued on their reckless journey downstream. At almost the same moment, the vehicle's engine died and, seconds later, the headlights dimmed and went out altogether but not before giving a brief glimpse of the startled face of Frank Orgreave, sitting stunned and motionless in the driver's seat.

Jason's mobile was answered by a familiar voice at the local Fire and Rescue station and he shouted down the phone,

'Call out the Watch, Bev! Police and Ambulance, too! There's a car in the river, just down from the bridge. Send the full rig for a Water Rescue!'

ooOoo

Frank Orgreave was frozen in place, sitting in the driver's chair, hands gripping the steering wheel, feet on the pedals, water lapping around his knees; locked into a waking nightmare that he could not begin to comprehend.

'Frank! Frank!' yelled Arthur, reaching over from the rear of the vehicle to find the release mechanism for Frank's seat-belt and pressing it. As the seat-belt sprang open and snaked up to its resting place beside the window frame, Frank looked around in confusion.

'Frank, can you hear me?' Arthur shouted, right by the chauffeur's ear.

'What…? What…?' was all Frank could say, his befuddled brain unable to grasp this bizarre reality.

Meanwhile, Arthur was wrestling with the adjustable head rest of the driver's seat, working it upwards and eventually removing it completely and tossing it into the foot well of the front passenger seat, already full of water due to the nose-down orientation of the vehicle.

'Listen to me, Frank!' he shouted, urgently. 'You need to climb into the back of the car! Do you understand?'

'Climb into…what? No! What would His Lordship say?' Frank spluttered. 'Where's all this water come from?' he asked, plaintively.

'Frank, the car is in the river,' Arthur replied, keeping his voice as calm as possible but still loud enough to be heard above the background roar. 'It's filling with water and the only way out is through the back. You have to climb into the back. Now!'

'Climb into the back? I can't do that...'

'Yes, you can, Frank. I'm going to help you. Just listen to me and do exactly what I say,' Arthur coaxed. But Frank was having none of it. He shook his head, like a petulant child, and refused to budge.

Watching Arthur's failing attempts to persuade the chauffeur to save his own skin, Mycroft realised he would have to intervene. Leaning forward, he bellowed in his most authoritative tone,

'Orgreave! Do as you are told, _immediately_!'

Mycroft never spoke to his staff in this way - it was simply not his way - but his father before him had done so all the time and for Frank Orgreave, the old family retainer, some quality in Mycroft's tone triggered a memory of the previous master of Colbert House and it had the desired effect.

'Yes, sir! At once, sir!' he cried and began to scramble out of his seat.

ooOoo

'Alfie, get back to the Hall and tell them what's happening,' Jason ordered his Best Man. 'We need all hands on deck for this.'

Alfie turned to go but then turned back.

'Wait for the Watch to get here, Jay! Don't be a bloody hero,' he shouted.

Jason waved a hand, dismissively, and returned his gaze to the focus of everyone's attention – the car stranded nose down in the river. His vision had adjusted to the darkness and, in the diffuse glow from the street lighting, he could see movement inside the vehicle. Someone was leaning into the cab from the rear of the car, remonstrating with the driver. As he watched, he saw the chauffeur lean over to his left and, rather clumsily, scramble onto his hands and knees across the two front seats. The next moment, Jason saw an arm reach over and grasp the chauffeur around his waist then haul him, bodily, through into the back of the limo.

With the sudden transfer of weight from the front to the rear compartment, the back end of the car dipped violently and whatever was pinning it in place lost traction, sending the vehicle spinning off downriver, to the collective gasps of dismay and alarm from the cluster of villagers.

'Shit!' Jason hissed, under his breath. Such a development was potentially disastrous. This stretch of the river was usually quite shallow – a couple of feet deep at most. Currently, it had doubled its depth but, even if the car sank to the bottom, the roof would still be visible. But further down-stream, the depth increased dramatically and the likelihood of the car sinking out of sight was a real possibility. Either way, he needed to keep track of the vehicle so he could guide the rescue crew to it.

He scanned the river banks, for a point of access. On the far bank, there was a public footpath that ran along the length of the river and was currently underwater but that was immaterial, since there was no way he could reach that side, due to the broken bridge. On this side was a row of houses whose back gardens ran straight down to the water's edge. Some of the home owners had constructed wooden landings from which, on summer days, they could launch dinghies or canoes into the usually gently current or, on balmy evenings, sit and sip wine and watch the local bat population swooping over the water, catching midges and moths.

Right now, however, the bats were all in hibernation, the dinghies and canoes were stowed away and the landings were only just visible above the swollen river but…

The car's spinning progress along the water course was halted once again. Its bonnet jammed under one of the wooden landings. Jason could hear the distant wail of the rescue vehicle's siren, still a couple of minutes away, but he saw a window of opportunity and he had to take it.

'You! And you!' he shouted, pointing at two youthful bystanders. 'Come with me!' They stared at him, uncomprehending for a moment, then seemed to come to their senses and were instantly on board.

Spinning on his heels, Jason raced back along the main street to the junction with the road that ran parallel to the river. There, he pointed to the first of his conscripts.

'Wait here! Show the rescue crew which way to go,' he ordered, pointing down the side road before racing on in that direction.

He calculated that the car had stopped five or six houses along so, followed by his second recruit, he ran passed the first four houses and, coming to the fifth, threw open the garden gate.

'Send the crew through here! It's the quickest way to the river' he shouted to the youth, and ran down the side of the house to the back garden.

Dismissive of the fact that he was still wearing his hired wedding suit and the most expensive pair of shoes he had ever owned, Jason took the shortest route to the water, across the muddy lawn, inadvertently triggering a movement-sensitive security light, mounted high up on the back wall of the house. The area was instantly flooded with a bright, white light. Grateful for this unexpected boon, he skidded to a halt at the bottom of the garden and stared down into the river course…but was dismayed to find that he had miscalculated. The car was still jammed under the landing but it was adjacent to the next house down.

And between him and the stricken vehicle was an impenetrable eight-foot-high hedge.

His feet scrabbling for purchase on the slick, wet grass of the winter lawn, Jason turned and charged back towards the street to divert the rescue crew to the right garden.

ooOoo

As Arthur dragged Frank Orgreave through into the back of the car, they both landed heavily on the flooded floor of the rear compartment and Arthur gasped as the air was squeezed from his lungs by the weight of the elderly chauffeur on top of him. At the same time, Mycroft felt the limo rock violently and, as the car tilted, water poured in though the open window, drenching the occupants by the sheer force of the inundation. Then, they were off - spinning out of control, propelled downstream by the racing current.

Coughing violently, Mycroft clung to the grab rail with one hand and reached out to pull Frank Orgreave off Arthur and up onto the seat beside him, where the chauffeur sat looking around, wild eyed, uncomprehending. Relieved of his burden, Arthur was able to regain his feet and braced his hands against the roof of the car in order to stay upright.

Then the car shuddered to an abrupt halt, pitching Mycroft and Frank back onto the flooded floor.

'Oh, my God? What's happening? What's happening?' the chauffeur wailed, thrashing about in the water in a state of utter confusion. Mycroft rolled over and sat on the floor of the car, chest-high in water, leaning against the partition, catching his breath, feeling battered and bruised.

Arthur, however, was instantly alert to the change in their circumstances. The car had hit something – possibly the bank. This could be their best chance of an escape. He leaned across the width of the car and stuck his head out of the window to assess their situation. Down here in the water course, there was very little light but he could just about make out a horizontal structure and the upright posts of the wooden landing, under which the bonnet of the car was stuck, and that could mean only one thing – they were close to the bank.

But far from being a cause for celebration, this only increased Arthur's anxiety. At any moment, the landing might break from the weight of the car and the force of the water so they had to act immediately if they were to have any chance of escape. Pulling his head back inside the car, he looked down at the floor of the limo.

It was difficult to make out any detail inside the dark car but Arthur could tell from the outline of Mycroft's body, slumped against the partition, up to his chest in the rising water, that his husband was not coping at all well with the conditions. The constant roar of the rushing river made communication difficult but Arthur grabbed Mycroft by the shoulders and shook him.

'We're right by the bank. We need to get out now!' he shouted, forcefully.

As if to support this assertion, the inside of the car was suddenly illuminated by a bright, white light from the bank above and Arthur saw the shape of a man, silhouetted against that backdrop. It gave him a surge of hope. They were not alone. People knew they were here. Help was coming.

'Mycroft! It's going to be OK! Come on, now!' he roared, pulling at his husband's arms to rouse him from his stupor.

ooOoo

Up at the big house, the phone in the front hall rang out.

Andrew, Mycroft Holmes' valet cum butler, lifted the receiver.

'Colbert House,' he intoned.

ooOoo

Sherlock raised his glass and touched it, lightly, to Molly's matching champagne flute before taking a sip of the sparkling liquid. They had spent the last several minutes dancing around every inch of the Orangery floor but were 'sitting this one out', catching their breath from their exertions. Sherlock gazed fondly into Molly's smiling eyes, silently congratulating himself for all the surprises he had managed to pack into this – their first official - St Valentine's Day. He wondered, absentmindedly, how he was ever going to top this in the years to come. That was the problem with setting the bar so high at his first attempt. Would he ever be able to live up to this?

He and Molly were devoted parents, there was no doubt about that, and they loved one another dearly. Sherlock was sure of that, too. But was he guilty of taking Molly's devotion for granted? Did he do enough to make her feel special – not just as the mother of his children but also as the love of his life? When had they last had any time together, away from the children? He knew exactly when – one weekend in August, the year before last, in Rio.

The random thought from earlier in the day asserted itself and he said,

'Molly, how do you feel about honeymoons?'

Molly froze, her glass halfway to her lips, taken aback. She'd been caught out by this sort of question once before - in a very fancy restaurant in Rio de Janeiro, with extremely embarrassing consequences - and she didn't want to make the same mistake again.

'Oh! Er…I…er…' she stammered, whilst frantically analysing the question in order to discern Sherlock's true intent.

Was he asking for her general opinion on honeymoons, per se? In which case, she would say she thought they were a lovely way to cement a marriage by having a week or so away somewhere, together, enjoying one another's company.

Or was he asking whether she would have liked a honeymoon when they got married? In which case, she would say that she was perfectly happy not to have a honeymoon, as it wasn't convenient at the time.

Or was he asking her if she would like to have a honeymoon sometime in the future – a holiday together, just the two of them, without the children? In which case, she would say…

It wasn't something she had ever given any thought to but, actually, it was an appealing idea…

At this point, Molly realised that Sherlock was peering at her quite intently, with a mixture of concern and confusion. She reached across the table, bringing her hand to rest against his cheek, and smiled sweetly.

'Every moment I spend with you is a honeymoon to me,' she murmured.

Sherlock took her hand in his and, with a fervent expression, leaned toward her.

'Yes, but would you like a proper one… like Mycroft and Arthur's?' he implored, anxiously.

'That's a lovely idea, darling!' Molly replied, relieved to know exactly what he was asking. 'And we can maybe think about having a holiday on our own at some point in the future. But, right now, this is just perfect,' she moued. 'Another dance will suffice!'

Sherlock visibly relaxed. A dance, he could do. Rising to his feet, he led Molly by the hand, back onto their own private dance floor and took her in his arms.

But, as they began to move together to the slow, romantic rhythm from the invisible band on the other side of the wall, the door to the Orangery opened and Andrew entered, in an obvious state of agitation.

'Mr Holmes!' he said, breathlessly. 'There's been a terrible accident!'

Molly and Sherlock both froze and stared back at the butler.

But Andrew raised a reassuring hand and added,

'Don't be alarmed. Everyone is safe now.'

ooOoo

 **OK, that's the final chapter! Just the Epilogue to go now.**

 **Although the timeline of this story is only a couple of weeks, for one reason or another it's taken me more than a year to write! I do hope you think it was worth the wait.**

 **Reviews gratefully accepted. Thank you all for reading. :)**


	32. Until Death - The Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Molly Hooper-Holmes hovered on the edge of sleep, curled in the cosy comfort of the darkened bedroom. She should have been asleep hours ago but her mind would not succumb to rest. She was waiting, listening, straining for the slightest sound that would herald his return.

The distinctive growl of a London Hackney cab permeated the curtained room and Molly's eyes peeled open, as the early stirrings of a wave of relief washed through her. He was home, at least. But was he in one piece? The cab's engine tone dropped into neutral, right outside the house, and the thick night air was punctuated by the sharp thud of a cab door closing.

Molly narrowed her focus of attention, counting unconsciously in her head until she heard the sound of a key inserted into the front door lock and the door swinging open then closing again. He was moving at a normal pace – perhaps even a little faster – which boded well for his physical condition. A short pause, during which she visualised him removing his coat, scarf and shoes, was followed by the soft creak of his tread on the stairs.

Guided by these familiar sounds, Molly tracked his progress in her mind's eye, up two flights of stairs and across the ceiling, as he checked on the boys – William first and then Freddie – back down one flight and across the landing, into the Nursery, to look in on Violet. This was his established ritual, on returning home in the dead of night, to reassure himself that all his children were safe and well, sleeping in their beds. Via the baby monitor on the bedside table, Molly heard the nursery door close and held her breath, feeling a warm thrill of anticipation as she waited her turn.

The bedroom door opened silently and a dark shape entered the room and crossed the floor. Molly rolled onto her back as the interloper put one knee on the bed and leaned across. She reached for him with both arms and enveloped him in a welcoming hug.

'Ugh, your hair is soaking wet!' Molly exclaimed as her warm, dry skin made contact with his cold, wet curls.

'Well, it's raining,' Sherlock replied, easing back, mildly affronted. 'It's been pouring with rain all evening. Didn't you notice?'

Molly smiled, apologetically, and placed a gentle hand on his cheek.

'Fetch a towel and I'll dry it for you,' she murmured.

Instantly mollified, he leaned in again and plucked a soft kiss from her lips. She could taste alcohol on his tongue but no cigarettes. That was a good sign.

'I thought I might jump in the shower,' he replied. 'I'm chilled to the bone.'

'It's warm and cosy in here,' Molly moued, invitingly, indicating the empty space beside her, with a tilt of her head.

What an attractive proposition that was! The sweet scent of her – a subtle blend of peach shampoo, honey and almond shower gel and her own natural aroma – assailed Sherlock's senses and warmed his heart. Gathering her into his arms, he rested his forehead on the pillow, beside hers, and sighed out the stresses of the last few hours - but only for a moment.

'Hold that thought,' he said.

Relinquishing his hold on her, he pushed off from the bed, removed his jacket and tossed it onto the bedroom chair then strolled into the en suite bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt. Molly reached out to switch on the bedside lamp then sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees, wide awake and anxious to hear how Sherlock's evening had gone.

'How was your day?' he called over his shoulder, having peeled off his rain-damp clothes and donned his pyjamas, before cleaning his teeth.

'Oh, you know…the usual - post mortems and whatnot. Nothing out of the ordinary,' she called back. Certainly nothing that Sherlock would find interesting.

'Mmmm,' he replied, carefully squeezing a measured amount of toothpaste onto his brush. 'And the children?'

'Yes, they're fine, too… although they missed you at supper but I told them you were on an important mission.'

'Hmmm,' he grunted in response, mouth full of toothbrush.

'Oh, and Mycroft phoned…' she added.

'Ungh?' Sherlock replied, spitting out the toothpaste. 'What now? Not another death-defying drama, surely? He's bordering on attention-seeking, if you ask me!'

Molly had to smile. Sherlock might appear dismissive of recent events but she would never forget the look on her husband's face when Andrew Lewis interrupted their romantic little interlude with the news of a terrible accident. She had watched the colour drain from Sherlock's cheeks and felt his body tremble, when he thought some awful fate had befallen his brother.

 _The river rescue had been a confusing blur of activity. First, there was just a single lone figure standing on the bank, looking down on the stricken vehicle. Then, suddenly, the bank and the landing seemed to swarm with people, mostly dressed in hi-vis jackets and helmets, with head torches that reflected off the water and illuminated the scene in a confusing chiaroscuro of light and shade._

 _The emergency crew worked with a methodical urgency, putting into practice the protocols they had consolidated through countless drills of water rescues. First, they threw an inflatable boom around the limo to hold it in place, against the river bank, just in case the wooden landing should collapse and release the car once more to the wild current. Then, one by one, the three occupants were extricated from inside the vehicle, through the open window, wrapped in survival blankets and transferred to the waiting ambulances, to be whisked away to hospital._

 _Only then did someone think to call the 'Big House' and alert the household to the situation but at least the news was positive. And, although the contents of the suitcases were a write-off and the car itself would require a complete restoration, there were no lives lost._

 _Following a brief stay in hospital, and treatment for hypothermia and a few minor injuries, Mycroft and Arthur returned home. Frank Orgreave was transferred to a specialist assessment unit where his dementia was diagnosed and a suitable care and treatment plan devised. Mycroft would ensure that he received the best possible care and both Mr and Mrs Orgreave were assured of a grace and favour home for life on the Colbert House estate._

 _And, two weeks on, the newly-weds set off once again for their honeymoon destination._

'No,' she replied, 'he just wanted to let us know that he and Arthur had arrived safely, this time. He didn't want you to worry.'

'As if!' Sherlock snorted, splashing water on his face then snatching up a hand towel.

Switching off the bathroom light, Sherlock returned to the bedroom, patting his face with the towel, and climbed onto the bed, crawling up to the top end on his hands and knees and stretching out next to Molly. He offered her the towel which she took and tossed over his head before beginning to rub his hair dry. As his head sank lower and lower toward the pillow, under her energetic assault, Sherlock felt a great wave of relaxation sweep over him, from head to toe, and he gave a deep sigh of contentment.

Job done, Molly dropped the towel onto her bedside table and carded her fingers through his damp locks, combing the hair back off his brow before pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

'How was John?' she asked, tentatively.

'Hmm,' Sherlock huffed, a frown wrinkling the gap between his eyebrows as he burrowed his face into the pillow.

 _Sherlock stood on the pavement outside the front entrance to John and Mary Watson's St John's Wood flat, his hands shoved deep into his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the persistent drizzle that seemed determined to soak his bare head and trickle down his neck, despite the upturned collar on his Belstaff coat. He waited the required length of time it usually took for John to descend the stairs and open the door. When nothing happened, he reached out a pressed the doorbell again._

 _He felt his mobile phone vibrate in his inside jacket pocket and reached in to retrieve the instrument. It showed a text message. From John. It read:_

 _Piss off._

 _Sherlock pursed his lips and frowned at the message then pressed the doorbell again, for just a few moments longer than would normally be acceptable. There was another lengthy pause and then a light came on at the top of the internal stairs, visible through the half-moon window above the front door. Sherlock took a step back and braced himself for whatever his erstwhile friend might throw at him – either physically or metaphorically._

 _This would be their first face-to-face encounter since the unfortunate incident in the Cardiology Out Patients Department at St Mary's Hospital, two weeks earlier. In the meantime, Sherlock had made several attempts to contact his friend by text and phone call but John had not responded favourably to any of them. Initially, he had ignored them and, when Sherlock persisted, he had sent a very explicit text message, inviting Sherlock to perform a physical action which the detective was pretty certain could only be achieved by hermaphrodites – and, even then, only in theory._

 _Sherlock did feel bad about his behaviour that day. He knew John was only trying to be helpful and he also knew that he had rarely – if ever – thanked his friend for the number of times John put his neck on the line for him._ _But it had been nearly two weeks of estrangement and Sherlock was missing John's solid, dependable presence in his life. He was determined to put things right between them._

 _Which was why he found himself standing in the street on this rainy night with a bottle of extremely expensive red wine weighing down one side of his Belstaff coat, waiting for John to storm down the stairs, open the door and take a swing at him._

 _When the door opened, Sherlock was surprised, though not particularly relieved, to see Mary Watson silhouetted against the landing light behind her._

' _Hello, Sherlock,' she said, quite convivially, but making no move to invite him in. 'He'll be down in a minute, h_ e's just getting his coat, _' she added, with a less-than- friendly smile, folding her arms and leaning against the door post._

' _Is he…alright?' Sherlock asked, warily._

' _No, he's seriously pissed off, actually,' she replied, 'but I've told him either he sorts things out with you or he finds somewhere else to live because he's been unbearable ever since the two of you fell out. It's like living with a stroppy teenager.'_

' _I can hear you, you know!' came John's voice, down the stairs, closely followed by the man himself._

 _Sherlock took another step back as John Watson kissed his wife and promised he would not be home late then stepped out onto the pavement and, with barely a glance in Sherlock's direction, set off up the road at a lively pace._

 _For once, Sherlock had to run a few strides to catch up but then he fell into step beside his friend and they proceeded along the rain-soaked street in an uncomfortable silence. As they came to the top of the side road, at the junction with the main road, John stopped suddenly, under the street lamp, and turned to confront Sherlock._

' _You've got a bloody nerve, coming here!' he snapped._

' _Yes, I know,' Sherlock replied, lowering his eyes in contrition._

' _After everything I've done for you!' John hissed, between clenched teeth._

' _Indeed,' Sherlock replied, apologetically._

' _And you expect me to just take it on the chin and come back for more? Well, think ag…'_

' _No, I don't,' Sherlock interrupted._

' _Oh, like hell you don't!' John gave a derisory snort and turned away but turned back immediately._

' _Well, I'm done with taking your crap, Sherlock! Do you hear me?'_

' _Yes, I hear you,' Sherlock replied._

' _That's it! Finito! I'm done with sticking my neck out for you, do you understand?'_

 _The Consulting Detective gave an audible gasp._

 _'John, please...!' he began but John took a menacing step towards him and he took a brisk one back._

' _From now on, no more special treatment.'_

' _Special treatment?' Sherlock repeated, perplexed._

' _Favours, I mean. No more favours. Got it?'_

' _Yes, got it,' Sherlock replied, mildly relieved that his first impression was incorrect. John was not severing all ties with him, after all. 'And I wholeheartedly concur,', he added, for good measure._

' _Good!' John huffed then turned and stalked back the way they had come, leaving Sherlock standing alone, under the lamp post, in the rain._

' _But John…!' he exclaimed, not so sure of john's intentions, now._

 _John jerked to a halt and turned to face him._

' _What?' he barked._

' _Well…' Sherlock entreated, '…we are still…friends, aren't we?'_

 _'Friends?' John spat, emphasising the 'F',_ ' _You're the bloody genius, what do you think!'_

 _Sherlock took a tentative step forward and said a rather hopeful, 'Y-es?'_

 _'Ha! You are amazing!' John exclaimed - and not in a very good way. 'Get over here and give me that bottle of whatever it is, in your pocket…'_

 _Sherlock smiled with relief and walked toward John, pulling the bottle of wine out of his pocket and offering it to him._

'…s _o I can hit you with it!' John concluded, snatching the bottle from Sherlock's hand and raising it up above his shoulder._

 _Sherlock ducked and jumped back but John laughed and lowered the bottle._

' _This is far too good to waste by cracking it over your thick head,' he smirked._

' _I'm relieved to hear it,' Sherlock replied, still not entirely sure where things stood. Was this just John playing with him or did he actually intend to do him harm?_

' _Well, don't just stand there, you prat. If we're going to drink this, we'll need a bottle opener – trust you to buy wine that doesn't come in a screw top…' John sneered._

' _It's your favourite…' Sherlock replied, by way of an explanation for his choice._

' _I know,' John replied and strutted back to his flat, with Sherlock trailing along behind._

Molly leaned over and rested her head between Sherlock's shoulder blades, rubbing his arm, sympathetically.

'But you are forgiven,' she confirmed. Surely, he must be if John invited him in and they shared the bottle of wine.

'I think so,' Sherlock replied, still slightly bemused, 'though no doubt I will be the butt of countless in-jokes between him and Greg, for a good while, until he feels fully revenged.'

'I'm sure they don't mean anything by it,' Molly soothed. 'It's just banter.'

'Oh, yes, banter!' Sherlock huffed. 'I remember that from school.' He wasn't convinced.

Molly snuggled into her husband, wrapping her arms around him and tilting her head to place a soft kiss on his shoulder.

Sherlock turned his head, giving her the suspicious side eye.

'You're being very…affectionate,' he observed, cautiously. Since he'd made the unilateral decision to start celebrating 'special occasions', he was slightly paranoid that he might inadvertently miss one, so he began frantically scanning his hard drive, looking for any kind of clue. Finding nothing, he ventured,

'What's the...occasion?'

Molly snuggled still closer.

'Does a wife need a special occasion to show her husband affection?' she cooed, seductively. 'Marriage is for life, not just for Valentine's Day...'

'Unless they both amount to the same thing, of course,' Sherlock replied, greatly relieved at not being remiss, and warming to his subject. 'I mean, Mycroft…'

Molly sat up, abruptly, and Sherlock rolled over, wondering what he had done to cause this sudden cessation in snuggling, only to find Molly staring at him, aghast.

'Sherlock! That's not something to joke about!' she admonished.

'I wasn't joking,' he replied, indignantly. 'I was merely making a logical deduction based on all the information available…'

Molly leaned over and stopped his lips with her own, having the immediate effect of making it physically impossible for him to say anything more but also causing him to forget what he was about to say, anyway.

ooOoo

 **A fluff-filled ending to this story! I hope you liked it. :)**


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